Spiritus Mundi
by Speakfire
Summary: The Archdemon is dead and Ferelden survives. But darkness lingers and as they say, without darkness, there can be no light. End-game spoilers. Alistair/Dalish Elf
1. Prologue

A/N

There used to be a prologue to this story. After a long period of consideration, I've decided to post it as its own one-shot story, entitled "A Black Bargain" and delete it from the prologue of Spiritus Mundi for a couple of reasons. First, the sexually explicit and somewhat violent events of the prologue do not accurately reflect the, how do I say it, the overall nature? The mood? of Spiritus Mundi. Second, my daughter, who is 11 years old now, had been wanting to read the story for a while after seeing me play DA:O and loves Alistair. It really bothered me that I had to forbid her from reading what would otherwise be a T-rating story because of one chapter that, while important in that there are references back to the 'Morrigan's ritual', didn't NEED to be made a part of the actual story. Thus, as of Oct 10, 2012, it is a separate story. I apologize for the inconvenience this may have caused, but would appreciate feedback on my decision either way. As a result of this, the rating of Spiritus Mundi has changed to T-Teen.

Additionally, when I originally published this, I had Elissa as the name of my Dalish Elf because I really liked the name. I've decided to change the name in this story to the default Dalish Elf name of Lyna to reduce confusion, because Elissa is so firmly associated as being the name of the Human Female Noble, Elissa Cousland. Heck, I'm doing another playthrough of DA:O right now and every time I see the Elf Elissa I twitch, because now that I've done an Elissa Cousland playthrough, that name just seems really weird.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you want to read the prologue, again, it's posted on FF as the title "A Black Bargain". Just click on my name to find it.

And now-to Chapter 1!


	2. A Rocking Cradle

A/N This story really is about Alistair, not the one from the related story "A Black Bargain", but the fun, light-hearted and occasionally adorkable one from the game Dragon Age: Origins. The thing is, it's not JUST about Alistair, quite obviously,and I'm working hard on getting the setting perfect, so thanks for your patience. I promise he'll be around in full force from the next chapter onward!

To clarify things—I goofed when writing this. If your read this story prior to 10/10/2012, Elissa was the name of my Dalish Elf-I loved the name and took it as my playthrough name. I didn't anticipate the confusion my story would cause when I made her an elf instead of the human Noblewoman as the name is used in the game. I apologize for any confusion it caused, but it's all in the past now. The Dalish Elf woman's name is the same as the default name in the game, Lyna.

_**CHAPTER 1**_

The instant the Archdemon was slain, Morrigan knew. Her body was filled with a surge of raw power so strong, so intense, that for the first time since she had felt her mage powers manifest at puberty, her spell got away from her. Chain lightning exploded outward from her in an enormous crackling burst that swept over and through both ally and enemy alike. After it finally faded, the air was filled with the scent of charred flesh and hot metal. Even those who had not been hit directly by the bolts twitched violently on the ground, stunned and their hair standing on end.

The ritual had worked.

She felt something twist inside her, something ancient and corrupt and writhing that nearly made her vomit. The Witch looked downward at her flat stomach, resting her hand there for a moment and softly murmured, "Easy, Child," and the sense of the taint faded almost instantly, suppressed by the spirit of the Old God within her. She exhaled a slow even breath, giving those around her, living and dead, an assessing look. Out of preference, she had separated herself from the common troops of Ferelden and waded right in the middle of a group of darkspawn so she would be free to unleash her most powerful magics at will without having to make the effort to avoid hitting allies.

Unfortunately Leliana had been one of the few who had followed her, no doubt intent on helping keep her safe. The bard lay on the ground a short distance behind her, covered with terrible burns but somehow still alive. Morrigan reached down, casting one of her few healing spells on the other woman, and the magic got away from her again. This time, the burst was more focused but no less powerful. Leliana's burns instantly faded to smooth, unblemished skin, the stamped and burned grass beneath her body was restored to brilliant green, complete with flowers and weeds for ten feet around, and two darkspawn who had been all but charred sprang to their feet, fully healed.

The bard still seemed disoriented when her eyes opened—it had all happened so quickly. The regenerated darkspawn recovered their wits much faster after being healed and charged Morrigan, teeth bared. Her lesson learned, the Witch used her staff to stun them and then risked shapeshifting into a wolf, figuring that, at least, would be an internal transformation that would not affect anyone else. The darkspawn gaped when the slim woman in front of them shimmered and changed into an immense, slavering beast twice the size of a bronto. That was all they had time to do before she was on them.

When they were dead, Morrigan shifted back to a woman again and left for the Frostback Mountains without looking back.

It took her nearly two weeks to reach the foothills, and by that time she already hated being pregnant, not for the usual reasons, but because she could not control her magic. She didn't realize how many small things she used it for. Even something as small as lighting a campfire was an impossible task. She nearly started a forest fire the first night lighting one, and called down a blizzard when she tried to put it out. When the protective ward she typically cast around her body knocked over trees in a ten foot radius around her, she gritted her teeth and did not use magic again for anything, not even shapeshifting, until she was through the Frostback Pass and nearly to Orlais. Then she turned south, and headed deep into the rugged mountainous forest that would be her new home.

While looking for an appropriate place to build her new hut, she discovered a long abandoned cabin, or shack, really. The bones of the former resident were scattered on the ground outside, grey with age and decay and some gnawed on by animals. She could find no evidence of why he, or she, had died. A thick layer of dust covered every surface inside the ramshackle structure, disturbed only by her own footprints and those of other, smaller and more verminous residents than herself. But the shack itself was no less sturdy than the hut she'd grown up in and would do as a home. For now, anyway.

After getting settled in and thoroughly learning the area around her new abode, she tried to practice her enhanced magic in an attempt to rein in and control the immense amount of power she now had access too, but found it to be impossible. She could not focus her willpower enough to even shrink her wolf form down to the size of a pony. The Witch found herself releasing too much energy at once, and each time that seemingly endless fountain of magic started, it became harder and harder to stop. Thankfully, the unborn life in her quelled the cankerous stain of the taint, even when she was using magic—outside of that first sickening corruption she felt in her belly when the Archdemon was slain.

The unseen changes in her body made it even harder than normal to concentrate. When she inadvertently set a portion of her shack on fire and again, called down a blizzard to put out the flames that ended up doing more damage than the fire itself, that was the final straw. Outside of the occasional shapeshifting to hunt, she stopped using her magic all together.

The morning sickness started a month later. A short time after that, she began alternating between being so tired that the Witch was certain she'd fallen asleep while standing on at least two separate occasions, having to use the chamber pot every ten minutes, and sudden tear-filled outbursts over the stupidest things, like a golden rope necklace Lyna had given her at one point during their travels. And then there were the swollen feet, her growing stomach and an insatiable craving for cheese that drove her to raid the root cellars of people in the nearest village on more than one occasion—all of this in addition to being forced to curb her magic use.

Morrigan now had a very clear understanding why Flemeth chose to steal children from Chasind families instead of having her own. She didn't believe it was possible for her to hate anything more than being pregnant, except possibly Alistair for making her so. The Witch ignored the fact that she had coerced him into that, of course.

Only the knowledge of what the child would become kept her from taking an abortive potion. Had he been anything else than what he was, what he would _be_, she would have ended it before ever reaching the Frostback Mountains.

And it was definitely a male child. She would have preferred a female like herself but in this, she had little choice. There was a connection there that went far beyond the laughable notion of 'motherly instinct'. She could sense how distinctly pleased he was when she read or recited passages and spells from her grimoires, but the mere thought of eating twistroot, which had always been one of her favorite vegetables, both irritated and disgusted him—and earned her a few painful kicks in the bladder to boot.

Morrigan had strange, dark dreams—or perhaps they were visions—in which she could almost feel the cooling of a molten earth, the plodding passage of eons, the frustrated writhing of an ancient presence that waited caged, hidden and burrowing, like a worm trapped in the rotted core of an apple.

As her pregnancy progressed further along, they became more focused. She relived her entire life through her dreams, starting with her earliest childhood memories right up to the point where she felt that immense surge of power that heralded the death of the Archdemon. The dreams of all living beings (with the exception of those stone-bound dwarves) took them to the Fade, but unlike her previous forays into that spiritual realm, these images were vivid and real in a way that they had never been before. Unobscured by that thick murky mist that typically lay over everything in the Fade, the Witch felt herself experience all the events of her life a second time, every emotion, decision, taste, scent, sight, sound, touch.

Her interactions with others were of particular interest. Those first memories of Flemeth, her murder of a Chasind man who had tried to claim her as his own, the very instant she felt her body tingle with the budding power of magic coursing through her, every single moment shared with another being, all were sifted through with equal precision. Ironically, the vast majority of her time spent with other people had happened in those weeks right before the Battle of Denerim—growing up with Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds had not been socially inclusive, after all.

Even though she slept, Morrigan's subconscious mind did its best to redirect her dreams elsewhere, elsewhen, but her attempts were brushed aside effortlessly. The people who she tried to avoid thinking most about were the ones that garnered the greatest amount of attention from the growing child within her—the more she tried to suppress the memories of Lyna and especially of Alistair, the more carefully they were winnowed through, each word, expression and inflection subject to intense scrutiny.

Thankfully, as the ninth month of her pregnancy started, the child shifted downward toward her pelvis and his attention became more focused on how uncomfortable and cramped his living space had become. Her body began to go through the final stages of pregnancy, her breasts swelled full with milk and ached and her back ached from the shift in weight.

One day while she was out tending the herbs in her garden, doing her best to ignore the contractions that had been spasming throughout her stomach for the past day and a half, she felt a warm rush of wetness between her legs and knew it was time. Carefully levering herself to her feet, she went inside, heated up water on the fire and gathered up the things she would need to deliver the baby alone. Then she sat down in the birthing stool and waited.

It did not take nearly as long as she would have thought, and she suspected it was because her child was as eager to be free of its tight confines as she was to have it out of her. Her contractions came in waves, each one coming closer to the previous and stronger in intensity. The pain in her back was excruciating and she felt the pressure in her pelvis move down, down, down. The stool made the agony in her back unbearable, so she moved the birthing linens down to the floor and stretched out on her back with a woven rug as her only padding. Morrigan inhaled, gave a primeval shriek and _pushed_ and—then the head came out. She reached down, cupping it in her hand and took another deep breath. One more mighty push and that did it—the shoulders slid out and the rest of the body followed to land in a wet puddle of flesh and blood and birthing fluid on the clothes she had bunched up beneath her rump.

She fell back, sobbing with pain and relief, and it took a moment for her to realize that the baby had not made a sound since being born. Frantic, the Witch sat up and looked down between her bloodied thighs to see the child, _her child_, his liquid gold eyes wide open and flecked with particles of brown and more aware of his surroundings, of himself, than any newborn's eyes had ever been.

A feeling of exultation unlike anything Morrigan had ever experienced swept through her. Picking her son up, she cupped her hand around the thick, matted cap of dark hair on his head to clutch him to her breast instinctively. "Well done, Child," she murmured, her voice ragged and still panting with effort. She brushed her nipple over his lips and he latched on and began suckling, never once closing his eyes as he stared up at her with something approaching bemusement. While he nursed, she dipped a clean rag into the tepid water of the nearby basin and began to clean him off.

The birth cord was quick to draw her attention away from that. It was thick, dark with blood and twisted, and she could not help the wave of revulsion she felt upon seeing it. The Witch settled the infant boy on her lap and tied off the cord with some twine, trying to avoid touching the disgusting thing. Then she picked up the knife and drew it hard across the tough, leathery surface. It writhed like a snake at the touch of the blade and the motion was so unexpected, the knife slipped in her grasp. As her clenched fingers slid up the slippery handle, she felt the keen, sharp edge dig into her flesh, blood welling up and running down the steel.

The instant that first red droplet touched the cord, it twitched once and then turned black. The twisted, veined surface began to shrivel and Morrigan watched with horrified fascination as the taint—for she was sure that was what it was—crept down the length of the cord, thankfully away from her son. She didn't realize the placenta was still in her body until she felt the first foul, corrupted touch on her thighs, and by then it was too late. The desiccated birth cord cracked into two and separated from the babe on its own.

Morrigan shrieked in agony as she felt the god-taint seep through every mote of her being. Her soul rotted—she **_changed_**_—_and the transformation was more painful than birth and death.

The child watched the taint work its way back into his mother's body, his expression serene and unsurprised.

* * *

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she regained consciousness. Her body ached still from the touch of the taint, but at the same time, something seemed to be keeping it at bay. Each time Morrigan's heartbeat pulsed, she could feel the ebb and flow of the corruptive effect in her body. _It's the blood_, she dimly realized, blinking and staring up at the ceiling from the pool of bloodied water she lay in on the floor. The child's god-blood that still lingered in her body quashed the effects of the taint.

The water on the floor came from where she'd tipped the basin in her thrashing and the bloodied birthing linens were a dark mottled blob of fabric. The baby lay just over an arms length away, his body relaxed in sleep and round face tranquil. The cord at his navel was unremarkable, and the Witch imagined it now looked like the umbilical of any other newborn baby.

Morrigan sat up and hissed at the pain that raced through her body. Without even thinking about it, she cast a heal spell on herself and closed her eyes as she felt the surge of power rush through her. The basking warmth mended her in an instant. It took a moment to sink in, that for the first time in nine months, her magic didn't escape her control. It was still exponentially more powerful than it had been before the Archdemon had been slain, but now that the babe had been born, it had waned to a manageable level.

The Witch smiled as she scooped up her slumbering child, holding him close to her chest as she began to clean up.

* * *

The god-child was like every other baby in numerous ways in that he ate, he slept, he pissed, he shit. He would make his displeasure known by squalling. Not really crying, per se, for there were no tears, but the loud protests were a clear indication that he wanted for something, usually food or a nappy change. If Morrigan took more time than he liked to see to his needs, he'd open his mind to her, just enough for her to feel the aching pangs of his hunger or how uncomfortable it felt to lay in the soiled clothes sticking to his skin and chaffing. After a few of his object lessons, she was careful not to tarry when he began fussing.

Despite the fact that most babies (according to what she had heard) were comforted by swaddling, her child seemed to be the exception to that rule. He detested it. If his wraps weren't kept loose enough, his face would redden and scrunch up (which made him look disturbingly like Alistair, after she'd been working hard to get him riled) and he'd bellow out his frustrations. He'd let her feel the confining binds around himself, how they reminded him of another time, when he'd been someone else, some_thing_ else, buried deep beneath the earth and confined for eternity. And then the tight strips of clothing would just slip loose and fall away from him. Like magic, only it wasn't, of course.

Her curiosity got the better of her and one day she tested it, tying him uncomfortably tight complete with a knot balled up right on top of his chest. The babe glared at her with a baleful stare and before her very eyes, the knot worked itself free and the linens seemed to melt free of him to form a loose puddle of white cloth around his body. She shook her head with fascination and lifted him into her arms. "Such a remarkable child," she commented with an approving smile.

The next morning when she awoke, she was entangled in her own bedding, the sheets and furs so tight around her body and limbs that she couldn't move, she couldn't breathe. She struggled in vain against the constricting fabrics and tried not to hyperventilate as that sense of being eternally confined swept through her again, the weight of stone and millennia pressing inexorably down. "Mercy, Child," she finally pleaded, looking over at the cradle beside her bed where her child lay watching, his expression solemn. She was instantly freed and flung the sheets off, gasping with relief.

She never tried to swaddle him again.

As for Morrigan herself, in the days following her delivery, she could feel the taint's sickening effects growing inside her, as the lingering drops of the babe's blood in her veins faded. The potency of her magic dwindled as well, much to her displeasure. She knew what she had to do, to maintain that perfect balance between corruption and power.

The Witch gathered her child close and set him down on a table, a dagger held at the ready and flask nearby. He cooed and gurgled, waving his fists around as he looked up at her with a broad grin that again brought Alistair's irritatingly handsome face to mind. "This must be done," she informed him in a matter of fact tone and the babe went still, his small face now regarding as seriously as a judge, as though he understood every word she said. She had no doubt he did.

Morrigan took a deep breath and slowly dragged the knife across his pinky finger and…nothing happened. She stared in disbelief at the tiny, unmarred hand. There was no blood, no scratch, not even a sign that she'd tried to cut him. Her startled golden eyes met those of her son and he blinked once.

Again, she drew the knife over his finger and watched as the sharp blade pressed into his soft flesh but did not break the skin. He could feel it, she knew that because his little fingers clenched in reflex at the touch. But that was all. There was no sign that he felt any pain from the touch. The Witch lifted the knife up and stared at it. Perhaps it wasn't sharp enough? No, that wasn't it, she realized as she dragged her thumb lightly across the well honed edge.

Gripping it more firmly in her grasp, she angled it downward in an attempt to prick the boy's skin with the point, but that was as ineffective as her other attempts had been. She jabbed his foot, his ear, his arm, all with no success. The high pitched giggle of laughter that escaped him when she poked him in the side sent a wave of frustration through her. Morrigan stretched out his leg and literally sawed at his foot with the knife. The knife blade indented the skin, dug into it but could not break through the flesh to the precious blood just beneath the surface.

Even though it didn't cut him, the babe found the confining pressure of her grip holding his leg still and drag of the knife just uncomfortable enough to squirm in protest. His face scrunched up again as he glared up at her.

Morrigan's heartbeat pounded in her chest and she could feel the taint surge as a result. Flinging the dagger away, her face twisted with vexation at being so close to that powerful blood and unable to reach it. "I must have it, I must or…" her voice trailed off, for she did not want to consider what might happen, what she might become if she could not find a way to draw blood from the child. Unconsciously, her fingers curled into claws, the nails digging into the child's thigh and he gave a started wail of pain.

Her jaw dropped as she stared down at the crescent shaped marks her fingernails had made, the blood welling up on his soft flesh. The babe was a god-child, but born of flesh—half hers, and half Alistair's—part of both and thus, vulnerable to them above everything else. The Witch had a moment of perfect clarity that revealed to her the most efficient way to draw the blood out of her child. She shifted into a spider and held him down with two powerful forelimbs as her waving fangs drew closer to that tender flesh. "This must be done," she chittered at him in spider-tongue and bit him.

The babe shrieked, crying fat wet tears, his small red face reflected back in the eight shining eyes on his mother's face.

* * *

Three weeks—a month was pushing it.

That was as long as Morrigan could go between 'feedings', if it could even be called that. After that, she could feel the taint's corruption spreading and the potency of her magic lessen. She had to be careful not to draw too much blood out because she could not take the risk. If her flesh against his was enough to pierce his skin and cause him pain, then surely there was the potential for her to kill him, even unintentionally, and if he was dead… well, corpses don't produce blood.

Despite that, each time she fed, she felt compelled take a little more of his blood. He was growing like a weed, after all—the bigger he grew, the more blood he had to give. Each time she felt the warm rush of fluid in her mouth, she was filled with exhilaration, a feeling of utter invincibility. It was addictive but she was disciplined enough to pace herself.

This was a necessity—for both of them. She needed him to keep the taint at bay, and he needed her because he could not survive on his own in his current state—or so she told herself. After the fourth time, he stopped struggling during her feedings and just lay there, sobbing until it was over. When finished, she would shift back into a woman and take him in her arms, soothing him quietly. She ignored the fact that the process was painful. Afterwards, he was always weak and sleepy. However, he was nothing if not resilient and healed quickly. Two days later, the only signs of her feeding were the circular scars her fangs left in his flesh. .

As Flemeth had done to her, she did not give him a name. "Your name is not mine to give, child," the old Witch had told her when she was a little girl. So she had named herself Morrigan. When he was of an age, he would choose his own name and until them, she called him "Child."

He grew as all children do, but was perhaps a little quicker to master things than an ordinary boy may have been. He started crawling on his elbows and stomach at three months. By six, he had his first tooth, dark hair, and a drooling mischievous grin that certainly did not come from her side of the family. Once he learned to walk at eight months, he was utterly impossible to keep track of. She would look away from the barest moment and turn back to find him cramming something into his mouth, parchment, flowers, bugs, coins, all were worthy of being tasted at least one time.

Luckily, that invulnerability that made his skin impenetrable to all but her touch was far reaching enough to protect him from poisons as well, as she discovered when he ate some dried belladonna leaves he had found locked away in a cupboard. She stayed up all night watching him sleep, waiting for the shakes and delirium the poison typically caused to wrack his small body. The symptoms never manifested, which was just as well, as not even her magic was strong enough to save him from that particular poison.

It was pointless to hide away poisons, potions, notes, or anything else unless they were high and out of his reach, because there was not a lock that she'd yet discovered that he could not undo. Even magically sealed locks were opened with ease, by the barest touch of his small finger. Along the same lines, no knot, however intricate it might be, was sufficient or tight enough that he could not untie it. He also was unaffected by cold or heat, as near as she could tell. She could pull him out warm bath water into icy air and he would not even shiver. Once, he had tipped a pot of boiling water over onto himself and stood there blinking owlishly at her with surprise, not because of the scalding hot water but because it was _wet_. She still made sure his clothes were appropriate to the weather but it was more of a precaution than anything else.

One thing he did not do was talk. Given his father's gift for gab, that seemed in many ways like a blessing. He could make sounds, she knew, because he cried every time she fed on him. On rare occasion he would laugh, but there wasn't a lot for a child to laugh at living as they did. He was content to play alone with the few small wooden toys he had while she studied her lexicons, honed her herbalism skills, or practiced her magic.

The only time the boy ever seemed content was when he was outdoors. Sometimes, he would run around joyously, jumping at grasshoppers and wave his arms like wings, flapping them at birds as he chased them around the clearing by their shack. Other times he'd sit cross-legged in the middle of the grass (or snow, as it were) and stare off into space, his face peaceful and relaxed.

Morrigan's nomadic nature was far too ingrained for her to stay in one place for every long. They moved quite often, every fall and spring, from that shack in the Frostback mountains to a fishing hut on the shore of the Waking Sea and then south to the Hinterlands. She avoided larger cities without fail, though she would occasionally venture into small villages to trade her herbs and potions for supplies—and for cheese. She hated it, but it was the one indulgence she allowed her son. To the average slow-witted peasant, she and her son seemed as unremarkable as any other displaced refugee still wandering Ferelden after the stain of the Blight had been wiped out.

Those forays into civilization were brief, and she tried to gather as much information as possible while she was there. She kept the child within arms reach at all times. News was spotty at best, but a few things were certain.

King Alistair was proving to be a very popular king, among the people at least, no doubt because he enjoyed rubbing elbows with the commoners. It seemed as though the former Grey Warden and Templar spent much more time travelling all over Ferelden than he did at the Royal Castle in Denerim. He'd married a human noblewoman, and not Lyna (and Morrigan just bet the Dalish Grey Warden had just _loved_ that). Commoners discussed the Queen's pregnancy as though she were a close relative rather than a noblewoman who likely would not have even given them the time to hold up her dress.

Lyna herself was working on restoring the Grey Warden order at their new base in Amaranthine with the help of other Grey Wardens from Orlais and the Anderfels. The rest of the companions that the Witch had travelled with were not important enough for the average Ferelden to remember with the exception of Wynne who had, by all accounts, become Alistair's 'court mage'. At the very least, she travelled with him whenever he left Denerim.

The darkspawn had retreated back underground without an Archdemon to guide them. Every now and again they would raid the surface world. Rumors abound that they were searching for another Old God to awaken and lead them in another Blight but so far, they'd had no such luck. Morrigan could not help tightening her handgrip on her son when she heard that. She felt them distantly through the taint they shared every now and again, but had not seen any above ground since the Battle of Denerim.

The Witch heard about the Queen's death the following spring when they were moving through a small village on the Bannorn. She'd lost the baby and died of a broken heart a few weeks later. Or so a trader told her, anyway, his eyes downcast and mournful.

By the time that Morrigan and the boy had made their way back around the Frostback mountains, he was just under four years old. He was a sturdy boy, with a shock of long, curly dark hair that was completely unmanageable. No scissors could cut it. Curiosity led her to return to the shack he had been born in. When she saw that it had been left undisturbed, she deigned that it would be safe enough to resettle until the following Fall. Perhaps they'd head down to the Korcari Wilds next time.

The child still had never spoken a word aloud. Perhaps he had nothing to say. For the past few days though, he'd been very subdued, even for him. He would sit with his head turned to look southward, though she had no idea what might be that way other than the spine of the Frostback Mountains. The Witch could not recall the last time she'd seen him smile—perhaps when that trader had slipped him a bit of candy?—though to be fair, he'd always been a serious little boy. It had been months since she'd felt him touch her mind, but perhaps that had to do with the fact that he was old enough to communicate by expression or by pointing, even though he still did not speak.

More likely his reticence was because he knew it was time for her to take more of his blood. She almost drooled, thinking of the rush his blood would bring. _Tonight_, she thought to herself. She let him play outside most of the day, though of course he had to do his chores first, sweeping the floor, bringing in kindling, shaking out the rugs. It was dusk when Morrigan decided she could not wait another moment.

The boy was sitting cross legged in the grassy clearing in front of the house. He held perfectly still, staring at a large butterfly with shimmering blue and black wings that was perched on his finger.

"Child, come now," the Witch called, her teeth bared with anticipation. "'Tis time. Come in."

His small shoulders stiffened but he did not turn his head away from the butterfly, which began to fan its wings nervously.

Morrigan's brow drew together when he didn't get up. "Child. Come here now," she ordered, enunciating the words with harsh clipped tones.

The boy turned his head slowly, not wanting to startle the butterfly as his golden eyes met her own. "No," he said, his small chin tilting upwards in defiance.

Her eyes widened with shock before the Witch hissed. _How dare he?_ Without even thinking about it, she raised her hands and a fireball flew from her fingertips toward the boy. It exploded on him with a loud boom, setting his clothes on fire and the boy gave a strangled cry of dismay as the butterfly was incinerated, its short life snuffed out in less time than it took to blow out a candle. The wings crumbled to ash and the charred body fell off of his finger to the ground.

The clearing was still crackling with flames as she shifted into a spider and lunged at him, literally pouncing on him. For the first time in years he fought back, kicking and growling like a wild animal, his teeth bared. She grabbed him up and tried to wrap him in a cocoon but the silken strands slid off of his small, thrashing body. In the end, she had to pin him to the ground with all of her weight, her forelimbs holding his arms down, ignoring his small feet kicking into her thorax as she sank her fangs into the muscle of his shoulder and drank more deeply of his blood than she ever had.

As his vital fluid drained into her bloated form, his struggles became weaker and more ineffectual. The boy's head hung limp to the side and his glazed eyes landed on the curled black body of the butterfly, the sooty cinders that had once been its wings less than a hands breadth away from his nose. Forcing himself to focus enough for one last moment of insolence, he pursed his lips and blew a warm, gentle breath across the remains. The ashes shifted, tumbling toward the charred insect and brushing over its surface. Each powdery piece clung to the butterfly's body, pulsed once and then restored life wherever it touched. The tiny limbs twitched, the blackened body uncurled and swelled with life, and the ashes clumped together in veined strands to form the shimmering blue wings scales.

A smile curved the boy's lips as it regarded him with faceted eyes, antennae flickering before it took wing, flying up and hovering right in front of Morrigan's eight eyes, taunting her with its restored life. She stared in disbelief as it imploded. The clearing burst into a riot of blue and black as hundreds—no, thousands—of butterflies swirled around her in a storm of wings. The delicate insects dived and darted at her with mocking disregard until blood loss finally took its toll on the boy and he fell unconscious. Then they all vanished, all but one that fluttered up and away from the clearing until it was out of sight.

It was dark when he woke up in his bed, his shoulder burning with pain. At some point, his mother had carried his naked body inside and dressed him in a muslin smock before putting him to bed. The boy looked across the room to where she lay with her face on the table, her mouth hanging half open and snoring, blood drunk. There was a plate with a large hunk of white cheese sitting there—a peace offering, he knew. Mother hated cheese.

In silence, he slipped out of bed and stood, his knees shaking and body swaying from lack of blood. When the world stopped spinning, he took a deep breath and padded with hesitant steps across the floor to the table and picked up the cheese. He bit into it, the taste sharp and delicious and satisfying more than just his hunger because it always made him think of the other one, the one Mother tried her hardest not to think of. Chewing slowly, he regarded her for a long solemn moment before he turned and walked toward the door. It was sealed by magic, of course, but it didn't matter. His fingertips brushed over the metal handle and he pulled it open just enough to slip outside.

The moon was waning in the night sky above, shining its dim light down on him as he made his way across the center of the burned clearing to enter the thick trees beyond. The food helped, filling his belly and strengthening his step with every bite he took. A little more than an hour after he left his mother, he reached the river. He stuffed the last chunk of cheese into his mouth and stepped into the water. He had only waded a few steps in before the rushing water swept him away.

The child tumbled head over heels, his small buoyant body pushed along by the quick moving current and tickled by the sharp rocks that lined the shallow riverbed. He was breathless and exhilarated and felt more alive than he ever had. His giggles rang through the Frostback canyons, echoing for miles.


	3. The Falcon Cannot Hear

_**Chapter 2  
**_

King Alistair Theirin, Grey Warden, ex-Templar, and bastard (the fatherless kind, thank you very much) was unusually quiet as his travelling party left the towering cliff walls of Orzammar behind. His brows drew together in a thoughtful frown as he shifted the reins in his hand, directing his horse Salt down the winding road that lead through Gherlen's Pass.

"You're not still hung over from King Bhelen's royal sending off last night, are you?" Wynne asked, giving him a sidelong look as she continued in a bright, cheerful tone, "Because if you are, I have just the thing to make you feel better. My tried and true hangover cure." The grey-haired mage turned on the bench seat and reached for her herbal pouch.

It took a moment for her words to sink in and Alistair stiffened in his saddle before calling to one of the guards riding ahead. "Captain Lyndon—I demand that this mage be arrested. She's trying to poison me again," he stated indignantly, giving Wynne a stern look. It wasn't far from the truth. The last time he'd tried one of her 'cures' it'd ended up making him sicker than the hangover itself did.

"Of course, your Majesty," the guard captain said with droll humor, not even bothering to look back at them. "Just as soon as we make it through the Pass, if you don't mind?"

Alistair thought about that and agreed, "An excellent idea, Captain. That way in case we're waylaid—that's a rather funny sort of word isn't it? Way. Laid. Anyway—in case that happens, we'll have some extra magic as backup." His brown eyes brightened with mirth, "Oh! Or we could just have her toss her cure at our attackers! Then we'd never have to draw our weapons!"

A few of his royal guards sniggered.

Wynne gave a soft chuckle as she resettled on the bench, primly adjusting her robe to settle over her legs in an even blanket of fabric. "Then I shall keep it at the ready for just such an occasion," she informed them in a tone as regal as that of any queen. That smile still touched her lips as she glanced at the man driving the wagon at her side to see his reaction to their banter.

Bayard had only been appointed as Alistair's court mage a couple of months ago, and he still had not adjusted to the King's casual manner. He stared between the royal and Wynne the Senior Court Mage, his bushy black eyebrows arched upward into his hairline before he shook his head a bit and turned his attention back to driving the wagon.

The young Ferelden monarch grinned as his procession, if it could even be called that, continued down the road. Seven royal guards and their captain, two scouts, two mages (including Wynne) and a quartermaster driving a supply wagon made up his travelling companions. It was too large a group for his liking, though to be honest, he'd have been quite happy to be travelling with just Wynne. The one time he had suggested that to Arl Eamon, of course, his advisor had nearly had a heart attack. "A King does not travel all over the countryside with nothing but an old mage for protection," the Arl had told him in a firm tone that brokered no debate.

It was a good thing that 'old mage' had not been privy to the conversation, because he was pretty sure she'd have caned Eamon with her mage staff for calling her such. Maybe not, though. Wynne tended to be far more reserved when talking with others than she was when talking to Alistair himself. And Lyna, of course.

Five years as the King of Ferelden had taught Alistair something about hiding his emotions. His fingers tightened around the reins but his amiable smile stayed in place as he allowed himself to think about the woman who had been such an integral part of his life in those hectic weeks prior to the Archdemon's death and his acceptance of his fate as King.

The first decision he made as Ferelden's future monarch ended up being the one he regretted the most, when he chose duty over following his heart. He'd genuinely thought he was doing the right thing for the sake of the kingdom when he'd told Lyna that once he became King, they could no longer be together, that he needed to marry and sire an heir to the throne or really two, actually, an heir and a spare, as the saying went. The pain and betrayal in her eyes, even after all this time, it still made his chest hurt thinking about it. And then, looking back at his life, at his empty and loveless marriage to the Queen Chana, her death and the death of their daughter when she had been born—how could he not feel remorse for that decision above all others?

He and Lyna had crossed paths a few times over the years. Her rank as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Alistair's insistence that she keep the nobles (and himself) informed on the progress of the new Warden Keep in Amaranthine made it inevitable. But he had not really _talked_ to her since, well, since that day, when duty took precedence over love—or when he sold his soul (his seed really) to the Witch so that neither of them would die by sacrificing themselves to kill the Archdemon.

It hadn't helped that the first few months after his coronation, he could hardly bear to look her in the eye. Lyna was a reminder of everything good that he was denying himself for the sake of royal obligations, and when they had been together, it had been beyond just good. Amazing was a much more accurate word. Or perhaps fantastic, even blissful? All of those, and so much, despite the darkspawn and the constant threat of death.

Grey Wardens from other kingdoms came to Ferelden and then there were the inevitable questions that followed. How had the Blight been stopped without either of them dying, if Riordan had not been the one to slay the Archdemon? Lyna had been the one to slice open the great Dragon from stem to stern, but Alistair himself had delivered the killing blow, burying Starfang in the horned head before she had the chance, not willing to risk losing her in the event that Morrigan's ritual magic had not worked. When that mighty blast had reverberated through his body and outward, he thought that was it. But he lived yet, and so did she.

"The tainted soul of the beast must have been drawn to a stronger beacon than Alistair's or mine." That's what Lyna told the other Grey Wardens, anyway. They didn't like it, but what could they say? The darkspawn had retreated back underground immediately after the Archdemon's death, ending the Blight, so the Archdemon's soul must have been destroyed along with that tainted beacon it had merged with.

That first year he was King, Alistair gained a measure of understanding what it was like to live in a Mage Tower, the constant pervasive sense of being watched and people judging every decision and move he made. Of course, his royal guards weren't going to skewer him if he made a bad decision (or at least he didn't think so—perhaps he should have double-checked that with the Arl?), but even so, it was a stifling atmosphere to live in, worse even than living in the Chantry had been. He felt the constant strain of others expectations on him, and they weighed him down like a millstone around his neck.

That was what had led to his first royal venture outside the castle, to see the progress that had been made on Soldier's Peak and view the damages that had been done to Amarantine by Arl Howe during that short time he had been Teyrn over the region. He just wanted some time away from the court and the nobles and the pressures of being King. When the bustling city of Denerim faded behind him, finally he felt the tension melt away from him and he could relax and be himself. And the commoners loved him for it, loved that he was willing to talk with them without talking down to them, to listen and at least pretend to understand what they were going through.

He'd have been perfectly content to spend his entire monarchy outside of Denerim, rubbing elbows with the Banns and commoners alike and sleeping on a bedroll instead of in the plush, soft, and ridiculously large bed at the castle. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. He had commitments and obligations at the royal castle that forced him to return. That and he was reasonably sure that if he were gone too long, Wynne was liable to knock him over the head and drag him back by his ear. She was just wicked enough to do such a thing, if the notion took her.

Nobles didn't really know what to make of him, this bastard who'd been a commoner, Templar, and Grey Warden before becoming King. They tried to manipulate him but they also feared him, he knew that as well, because he could see it in their eyes. Besting Loghain, who was widely considered to be the preeminent warrior in all of Ferelden, in a duel proved to them that he would be a formidable foe. Beheading the man who had been like a brother to King Maric in front of the entire Landsmeet demonstrated his willingness to punish those who betrayed him.

Arl Eamon later confided to him that Maric had passed similar judgment down on the Banns who had betrayed his mother the Rebel Queen, a betrayal that had ultimately lead to her death. It was one of those things that people didn't talk publicly about, but the memory lingered among the nobles.

Alistair put up with the nobles' machinations as much as he could stand. If it got really bad, he just played dumb. He was good at that. On particularly tough decisions, he generally deferred to Eamon's wisdom. Wynne's support was invaluable as well, especially in matters regarding the Circle of Magi and the Templars. He knew he wasn't as involved as he could have been, but King Cailan had been even worse from what everyone said.

Arl Eamon was the one who continually reminded him of his duty to provide the throne with an heir. He had pushed Alistair at Chana and he followed his advisor's lead. He'd followed the lead of others all his life, what was one more time, even though he was now King? The South Reaches noblewoman was pretty enough, with green eyes that shied away from his. She didn't quite get his sense of humor at times, but that wasn't unusual, many did not.

After his marriage, his rare meetings with Lyna became even more awkward. What did they have to talk about? Not the past, certainly—and not the future either, since they would not be sharing it. The past couple of times he'd been to Amaranthine, she was 'away on Warden business', or so he was told. Alistair suddenly had a greater understanding of how Arl Eamon had felt those times he came to visit him at the Chantry only to be turned away.

Chana was a good queen and she wasn't nearly as controlling as Queen Anora in matters of state. There were a few sticking points for her—she did not approve of the new freedoms that Alistair had given the City Elves, for instance, especially when he granted them a place on the Royal Council. That was one of the things he refused to give an inch on. Arl Eamon didn't much approve of it either, but he never voiced that aloud.

Their marriage had lacked passion. She lay with him because as a wife and queen, that was part of her duty—there was that blasted word again. The woman was so mired in Chantry tradition that the prospect of enjoying sex with another, even one she was married to, was practically sinful. She'd been a virgin until their marriage and had lay there limp, her nose turned up and aside as though she smelled something foul when he'd been with her that first time. Subsequent ventures to her bed were just as empty and unfulfilling as the first had been. He knew he wasn't all that experienced when it came to bedding women, but even so, he tried to persuade her to join in, to relax and enjoy the intimacy, to touch him and let him touch her, but she would have none of it. When he was spent, she would withdraw from him and pull her clothing back on. Talk about awkward.

It was testament to how pathetic things were when he got far more enjoyment out of 'polishing his weapon' than he did laying with a woman. Then again, he let his thoughts wander where they would on those occasions. He refused to let himself imagine he was with Lyna those times he lay with Chana. It felt too much like another betrayal.

He endured it for almost three years, until his tainted seed finally took root and she missed her monthlies. After that, she barred him from her bedroom, her obligation as queen done, for now anyway.

The Arl was thrilled when Chana had announced her pregnancy. In his mind, this was one matter in which Cailan had failed Ferelden, by neglecting to provide Anora with an heir. He immediately announced it at Landsmeet to the delight of the nobles. Alistair rolled his shoulder with a reflexive wince, remembering how many people had clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations the first months after the Queen's condition became public knowledge. It got so bad he took to wearing his ceremonial armor again at public occasions for protection.

Those first few months, Chana's pregnancy progressed normally. She was a bit more strident and tired, but everyone swore that she had the 'happy glow' that expecting mothers are said to have. After a time though, things began to change. Her skin turned sallow and bruised and she was stricken by terrible bouts of morning sickness, if it could even be called that, since she could be violently ill at any time of the day. Wynne tried to bolster her strength as best she could with her healing but despite her efforts, the queen was fading. She lost weight and became too weak to leave her bed.

Alistair could do nothing more than look on helplessly as the taint in his unborn child, for he knew was what it was, sapped the life from its mother. Where the castle had been filled with cheerful, excited chatter, now it was more like a mausoleum. Servants and nobles alike talked in hushed whispers and gave him sympathetic pitying looks when he passed.

In time the strain became too much. Chana started bleeding and it didn't stop, despite being tended by the healing magic of Wynne and Nesta, the other court mage. Alistair waited outside the queen's bedchamber with Arl Eamon while the baby came, two months early. Wynne wrapped the baby up in linens, hiding her from sight and thrusting her to Nesta's startled arms while she tended to the Queen, who was unconscious. Only after she was stable did Wynne call him into the room and let him know that the babe had never drawn a breath. He insisted on seeing his child and reluctantly, the mage delivered that tiny wrapped body into his arms, allowing his one and only view of his dead daughter, the wisps of blonde hair on her head all but obscured by the mottled dark patches of flesh that covered her skin.

He named the baby Mara. She was cremated the following day.

Chana regained consciousness two days after delivery but between her weakened body and her grief over the loss of her child, she slowly faded away. One morning she just fell asleep and did not waken. All of Ferelden went into mourning at the loss of both her Queen and heir.

Alistair kept himself apart from everyone else, even Wynne, brooding in silence and walking the long halls of the Castle late at night when no one was around to tell him for the hundredth time how sorry they were about his recent losses.

Wynne let him get away with it for a couple of months but then she had had enough of his moping and cornered him on the balcony of one of the royal guest suites where she knew he could not avoid her. He wouldn't even look at her as she came to stand beside him, both of them staring out over the stone railing at Dragon's Peak, the pointed tip jutting upward like a fang in the snow-capped mountains.

"It's not your fault," she finally said, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm with the icy breeze blowing from the west.

His jaw tightened at her words. "If not mine, then whose?" Alistair asked, his voice grim.

She pursed her lips. "You're wrong, you know. Grey Wardens can have children," she informed him, as though she were discussing little more than the weather.

Her nonchalant tone caught him off guard and Alistair looked over at her. He'd spent so much time wallowing in his own self pity that he had all but ignored her the past few weeks. Now that he studied her, he could see the lines of worry and strain etched in her wrinkled face and the weariness collected beneath her dark blue eyes. A surge of guilt filled him as he realized he was as much the cause for that as anything else—Wynne had been more of a mother to him than any other woman in his life and she'd confided on more than one occasion that she hoped her son would have grown up to be like him. "How do you know?" he asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice and how much he wanted to believe whatever she had to say.

One of Wynne's slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I asked around. Not all of the mages in the Tower are Ferelden, you know. We have gained a number of foreign mages, ranging from Orlais to places as far away as Seheron since Uldred's uprising. Children born from Grey Warden parents are not common, by any means, but it can happen. If the mother is strong of will and body, it's far more likely to be a successful pregnancy, but that's true regardless of who or what the parents are."

Alistair exhaled a slow steady breath and closed his eyes. "You could have told me, you know," he muttered.

Her thin grey eyebrows arched upwards as she faced him. "To what end? Alistair, few things in life are as uncertain as birth and death. What happened with Chana and Mara—would you have felt any better if I told you that it was a possibility? Or given you false hopes by telling you everything would be fine and that your daughter would be born free of the taint only to have her born as she was?"

He hesitated before answering, "Yes… No. Maker's breath, I don't know. I just, I don't know. I tried to hope for the best and prepare for the worst, but nothing could have prepared me for …." The image of his daughter's tiny body appeared in his mind's eye and he shook his head to dispel it from his thoughts.

Wynne rested her hand on his forearm with gentle pressure and he turned to face her, placing his own larger one over hers. "Nothing can prepare you for the loss of a child," she said simply, her blue eyes beyond sad with regret as they met his own.

His breath caught in his throat at her words, remembering back to the day she told him that she'd had a son who had been taken from her immediately after being born. Without even thinking about it, he drew her into his arms and rested his cheek on her smooth, grey hair as they both drew some measure of comfort from the other's presence.

Alistair was brought back to the present by the return of the Dalish elf scout Ithlayn. The party's other scout, a human named Rorick, was nowhere to be seen. Guard Captain Lyndon raised his fist, signaling the others to draw wagons and horses to a stop as the elf trotted up to his mount. The two conferred in low voices and after a few moments, the King gave Salt a quiet tongue click and walked up to join them. "Do I need to tell Wynne to ready her hangover cure?" he asked, looking between the two.

Ithlayn looked blankly at him and Lyndon coughed to stifle a laugh before answering. "Not just yet, your Majesty, though perhaps it would be best if she kept it within arm's reach." His expression more serious, he explained, "There's a rockslide blocking the road about two miles ahead. It's big enough that there's no way we'll be able to get the wagons past it without moving some of it out of the way."

"A rockslide?" Alistair echoed, his brows drawing together in a frown. "It wasn't there when we came through last week. You think there's a chance of an ambush?" he asked in a lowered voice, his gaze flicking into the craggy forest on either side of the road. A quick warning glance behind him at Wynne had the mage picking up her staff and holding it at the ready. Of those travelling in the party, she and Bayard would be the most vulnerable to attack, since they were wearing nothing more than robes. The rest of the men, himself included, wore chain and scale armor—light enough to travel in while still providing a good measure of protection.

A group of bandits would have to be pretty desperate to attack a well-armed group like this one, or pretty crazy. It'd never happened before in the previous times his royal procession had travelled around Ferelden, but that didn't mean that it couldn't happen now.

"Rorick is scouting the area to search for any signs of an attack," Ithlayn said and cautiously added, "However, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say the roadblock is more about delaying trade to and from Orzammar than it is about attacking unwary travelers. We shall know one way or the other soon enough."

The young monarch nodded, grimacing. "King Bhelen's decision to open Orzammar to more trade with the surfacers is not sitting too well with the nobles and warrior castes, especially following so soon after his decision to grant the casteless more privileges in exchange for fighting the darkspawn. It would not surprise me to learn that the more stone-bound among them are doing what they can to prevent that, or at least slow it down."

The Dalish elf tilted his chin upwards with a hint of challenge and stated, "They seek only to preserve their history and their traditions, such as they are."

A frown touched Lyndon's face as he looked between the scout and King. "Ithlayn," he growled in warning.

The grey stallion shifted beneath him at the sudden tension in the air as Alistair met the clear grey eyes of the elf and said mildly, "Some traditions seem more about holding people back than letting them move forward, though, wouldn't you say? Would you be content to live your life casteless among the dregs of your people, with no brighter future to look forward to than being a thief or a beggar? Or would you strive for something more?"

Ithlayn looked troubled and lowered his head in acknowledgement, admitting, "No. I could not live like that. Not even for the sake of tradition."

"Nor could I," Alistair replied.

Lyndon muttered something under his breath and was on the verge of saying something when a bird trilled in the distance.

Ithlayn gave a three-note whistle in answer and then looked at the captain. "Rorick says the woods are safe. It'll take some time for us to clear the road enough to pass. Perhaps one of the mages has a spell that can help?" he suggested before bobbing his head at the King in respect. Then he turned on his leather boot heel and trotted down the road with that steady ground-eating pace that Dalish traveled with.

Alistair watched him head off, clicking his tongue to get his grey horse moving. He glanced over at the sour-faced guard captain and commented lightly, "I'd offer you a sovereign for your thoughts but I made the mistake of giving Wynne my coin purse when we got to Orzammar and she's as tightfisted as an Orlesian tax collector."

"I heard that," the grey-haired mage said from behind them.

"You wouldn't have if you hadn't been eavesdropping again," he called back to her before looking at Lyndon.

The Captain shook his head and grimaced. "I apologize on Ithlayn's behalf. It's unseemly for him to openly challenge your opinion in such a way, your Majesty. The Dalish have no King but that does not give him the right to talk to you like you were no better than a…"

"No better than a…bastard son of a scullery maid?" Alistair said with sly humor, a wicked grin curving his lips.

Lyndon turned bright red with mortification and bowed in his saddle, pressing his gauntleted fist to his chest. "Forgive me, Sire. I meant no disrespect."

"Nor did Ithlayn." He shifted his gaze ahead to where the elf walked far in front of them. "I think we're rather fortunate to have him along. The Keeper Lanaya told me he was, how did she put it? One of the winds? One with the wind? Something to do with wind, at any rate," he said with a dismissive gesture.

"He is quite possibly the best scout I've ever seen," the guard captain admitted in a choked voice.

"Really? Then we're better off having him along then, don't you think? Even if he's got about as much tact as I do." Without waiting for a response, he announced, "I'm going to make sure Wynne and Bayard know we may be held up for a bit clearing the road," and drew back on the reins, slowing his horse long enough for the wagon to catch up.

He had just nudged Salt back into motion when Wynne said nonchalantly, "So? Did I hear something about a rockslide up ahead?" The mage pointedly ignored the fact that that the only way she could have known was by listening in on their conversation.

"Indeed you did." Alistair's broad grin faded a bit when he spoke again, "I think Ithlayn had the right of it. It seems that some of Orzammar's residents have decided to take matters into their own hands when it comes to slowing down trade with the surfacers."

Bayard frowned at that. "So what, they're setting traps along the roadsides for unsuspecting traders and the like?"

Shaking her head, Wynne sighed, "I doubt they're trying to hurt anyone—not yet, anyway. Most likely they're just trying to block the roads and discourage travelers. That's generally how blockades start, anyway."

It didn't them long to reach the rockslide. Alistair wasn't really sure what he had expected to see, but it seemed as though half of the cliff face had slid down the craggy mountain wall and crumbled to fist-sized rocks that were now strewn in a heap across the road. There was no way the wagons could be drawn safely over the obstruction, and forcing a horse over the broken rubble wouldn't be much better. Of course, Ithlayn scampered across the rockslide to the opposite side as nimbly as any cat.

"Wynne, I don't suppose there's any way you or Bayard could…" Alistair wiggled his fingers in demonstration and quirked his eyebrows at them. "That'd make this go a lot quicker."

"Truly. It'd take us days to clear this by hand, and we'd have to travel all the way back to Orzammar to get the tools to do it," Captain Lyndon said, scowling at the slide.

The grey-haired magewoman regarded the cliff face and rockslide before she shook her head. "It'll have to be Bayard. My primal magic is earth-based, yes, but the last thing I'd want to do here is cast my earthquake spell. The mountainside may still be unstable." Wynne quirked her slim eyebrows up as she looked at the other Mage. "Perhaps the blizzard spell? The wind should be sufficient to blow the worst of it out of the way, if you could maintain it for long enough."

Bayard nodded, drawing in a deep breath and raising his hands. He paused and then over his shoulder at them, warning, "You probably want to stand back a bit…"

They all beat a hasty retreat well out of the spells range, keeping a firm grip on the horses' reins as the spell was cast.

It built up slowly, starting with a thin tendril of fog that gradually spread outward, growing in strength and force to become a massive swirling cloud of mist and snow. The blizzard's winds roared like a raving beast as the storm settled right over the landslide. Crumbled rocks and dust began to shift from the gale force winds to slide the only direction they could go—off the road and down the rocky mountainside.

"By the Maker," one of Alistair's guardsmen gasped at the raw display of power and despite the many displays of magic he had seen during his time as a Grey Warden and Templar, he could not help but nod silent agreement as the rockslide was cleared away by the blustering winds. The horses snorted and stamped, their eyes white and rolling with fear at the unnatural storm system.

The blizzard began to fade and when it was gone, Bayard swayed, lowering his shaking arms and gasping with exertion. Wynne hurried over to him and murmured soft words, bathing him in rejuvenating glow. The King and his guards approached at a much slower pace, coaxing their nervous horses along.

Only a few large boulders that had been too heavy for even the blizzard winds to shift remained in the road.

Bayard recovered his strength, Wynne remaining at his side to keep an eye on him in his weakened condition. The black-haired mage watched, his mouth somewhat agape as the King with the help of two other guards began to push one of massive rocks off of the roadside. "Why is he helping them?" the man asked, sounding almost scandalized. He had only joined her as a Court Mage about a month before the royal party left Denerim, when Nesta stepped down from her position soon after Chana had died and returned to the Circle of Magi.

Wynne could only smile at his question, watching Alistair count to three before the men gave a final shove that sent the boulder crashing down over the edge of the road. "Should he not? You would rather him help hold the horses? Or perhaps stand around and look important?"

The mage's face flushed at her words and he straightened, stating, "I'm just saying that the King should not have to do manual labor, not when he's got eight royal guards who could do it just as easily. He is the King, after all."

"Hrm. Perhaps you are right. Well then, do you want to go tell him he should stop?" she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.

"I…" Bayard seemed at a loss for words as he considered the outcome of that and shook his head. "No, actually. For some reason I don't think he'd take well to that."

Laughing, Wynne shifted her staff from one hand to the other before reminding her cohort, "Keep in mind, before Alistair became Ferelden's King, he was a commoner, a Templar in training, and a Grey Warden. He's used to getting his hands dirty when the need arises and being made the King hasn't changed that. If anything, I think his men respect him more because he does not set himself apart from them at times like this."

He shuddered, grimacing at her words. "I can not imagine him as a Templar. He just isn't…." The mage raised one hand helplessly, unable to put his thought to words.

"I can't imagine it either," she agreed, resting her eyes on Alistair. "He's definitely not cut from the same mold as those dour Templars at the Circle Tower, is he? Believe me when I say, he may not have the temperament of a Templar but he has all of the training. Against even the most skilled opponents, he would be a formidable foe, his duel with Loghain certainly proved that. Against a mage, he is nigh unstoppable. He was very close to taking his vows when Duncan invoked the Right of Conscription to recruit him into the Grey Wardens. Thank the Maker for that."

"I'm still finding it difficult to comprehend that someone with Templar training could even like mages," Bayard admitted. "And the way he treats you, you have to admit it's unusual."

Wynne could not deny that given his Chantry background, her relationship with Alistair would have been unusual even if he had not been the King. "Don't let him fool you, he is very suspicious of blood mages and apostates, rightfully so. Still, I have known him for more than five years and during that time, well, we've been through and seen a lot together. He is kind and compassionate, despite his admittedly odd sense of humor. I have to confess, he's been one of the things that's kept this old, grey-haired mage going well past her prime." She raised her hand, muffling a quiet laugh, "Mostly just to see what he does next to irritate the nobles."

The black-haired mage guffawed at that. "Yes, I haven't been at the castle for long but His Majesty does have bit of a knack when it comes to tweaking the nobles' beards, doesn't he?"

"It drives Arl Eamon right up the wall when he does that, but Alistair doesn't care. He delights in making people underestimate him." She looked over her mage companion. His face was still pale but he was no longer shaking like a leaf at least. "Feeling better now? It looks like they're nearly done clearing the road, so I imagine we'll be underway soon. It's been a while since I drove a wagon, but I think I could manage. Or perhaps one of the guardsmen could do so."

Bayard levered himself to his feet carefully, using his staff for support as he stood. "Nonsense, I'm as right as rain, or will be soon enough. Whew, I remember why I use that spell so rarely—it really takes a lot out of me. I shouldn't have maintained it for so long without a rest. I apologize, Wynne."

"It's quite all right," she said with a kind smile. "Even the smallest spells can cause fatigue. Just know your limitations."

When the last of the rocks had been pushed off of the road they got underway again. The roadblock had made what was typically a half-day trip from Orzammar to Gherlen's Pass into an all-day affair. They'd be lucky to reach the river by nightfall, but at least the ground started to level off the closer they got to it. Alistair settled his horse at a steady walk in front of the mage's wagon while his guardsmen resumed their usual flanking positions around him.

In truth, the holdup was not nearly as irritating for Alistair as it had been for Lyndon. He was both looking forward to and dreading arriving in Redcliffe. On the one hand, it'd be good to see Bann Teagan and his lovely new wife Kaitlyn again, but at the same time, he was not looking forward to all the expressions of sympathy that would undoubtedly be forthcoming, since this would be his first visit to the town since the Queen had passed away more than six months ago. He was so tired of hearing people say, "I'm sorry for your loss," or "I'm so sorry about what happened." Sorry—as though it was their fault, or they could have done something to prevent it.

Despite what Wynne had told him, he still felt responsible for her death. After all, if he had not married her or bedded her, she'd still be alive. Then again, if things had gone differently, he might have kept Lyna at his side, or at least not pushed her away. If Chana's pregnancy had gone easily, he might even be a father.

_Of course, theoretically you may already be a father_, Alistair reminded himself with a pained grimace. As bad as setting the woman he loved aside for the sake of duty had been, in retrospect, laying with Morrigan to save both himself and Lyna from dying to the Archdemon had to rank right there at the top of his 'Worst Decisions Ever' list.

"In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice," or so the Grey Wardens' motto went.

_Well, two out of three isn't bad_, Alistair thought to himself with grim amusement. _Unless missing out on the third results in an Old God being reborn, with the potential to cause even more problems than a Blight. Oh—now there's a cheery thought. But hey, on the bright side, I will have provided Ferelden with another bastard heir!_

While Chana had been alive and especially when she was pregnant, it had been far easier not to think about that night spent with Morrigan and the child resulting from that union, if a being born with the soul of an Old God could even be called that. But now that his wife was dead, it centered in his thoughts more and more. Now he knew the child might be the one and only offspring he ever had. If he were born as human in appearance as his parents, what would he look like? Blonde hair, Alistair supposed, since both he and Cailan had their father's hair. Perhaps brown eyes like his own? Both Cailan and Maric had blue eyes, but Morrigan's were a pale golden color, like a wolf's. Now that'd be a strange combination, wouldn't it, if he had golden hair and golden eyes.

He wasn't really sure why, but he always thought of the child as a boy, likely because the thought of the Witch bearing a son as irreverent, mischievous and talkative as Alistair himself had been as a child was its own brand of revenge. Sometimes he wondered if he'd even born human at all. The Archdemons had all been Old Gods and dragons as well, so really, who knew? Or perhaps he was human but with the mottled, scaly patterned skin that Mara had had. He shuddered at that notion.

Either way, the end result of those wandering thoughts was the same—he wanted answers. He wanted to know where Morrigan had been for the past five years, and what had happened with the child she had borne, what the child could do, and what it had become.

Naturally the first place his procession had stopped after leaving Denerim was the Warden Keep at Amaranthine. For the first time in years, Alistair had been determined to take Lyna aside and _talk_, for Andraste's sake, not just about the child but about everything, his regrets and stupidity above all else. But of course, she wasn't there, just as she had not been there the previous two times.

"Warden-Commander Lyna was called to Weisshaupt Fortress. She has been gone for nearly six months now," her second-in-command Jaral had told him, looking surprised that the monarch was not privy to that information.

After spending the better part of a day arranging in his head exactly what he would say to her, the young King suddenly found himself at a loss now that he realized he wasn't even going to be given the chance. "Will you give her a message?" he asked after a long moment.

Jaral bowed his head with respect, "Of course, your Majesty. What would you have me tell her?"

Carefully considering his words, he said, "Tell her that Alistair wants to speak to her when she returns." When the other man cocked an curious eyebrow, he clarified, "Not King Alistair, or His Majesty, or even that royal dimwit who doubles as a hat rack for the crown, but just that… Alistair wants to talk to her."

"I understand, Sire, and will take extra precaution to omit the part about you being a dimwitted royal hat rack," Warden Jaral responded, his eyes twinkling with good mirth though his expression remained carefully solemn.

"Good man," Alistair murmured with a lopsided smile.

That had been more than a month ago, and so far as he knew, Lyna still had not returned. The traditional Headquarters of the Grey Wardens was in the Anderfels, more than a thousand miles away. Even if she'd already been gone more than six months, there was no telling how long it'd be before she returned to Ferelden.

Alistair rolled his shoulders as he rode along and started to whistle a bawdy tune he'd heard Leliana play before. He'd have sung it but he couldn't remember any of the words, only that it had something to do with plowing and planting seed, though not in the ground of course.

"Bayard, you need to pull up on the horses a bit, they're starting to speed up," Wynne warned sharply from behind him. "Bayard? Are you all right?…Alistair, look out!"

He had just turned his head around to look and his jaw dropped the sight of the wagon heading right for him and picking up even more speed by the moment, the horses wild-eyed and quite obviously completely out of control. Bayard was slumped over on the bench seat and Wynne grabbed at his robes in desperation, trying to keep him from falling out. "Maker's breath!" he gasped, jerking the reins just enough to move Salt out of the way before it barreled past.

The guardsman in front of him was not so lucky. With a curse, he shifted his horse to the side but the frame of the wagon caught his leg as it passed and he screamed in pain.

Alistair kicked his horse into a run without even thinking about it, chasing after the runaway coach.

"Your Majesty, wait!" Captain Lyndon shouted as he thundered past but he ignored the cry, leaning down over his grey stallion's neck as he gave the horse its head. One of the advantages of being the King was that the royal stable was one of the best in all of Ferelden and Alistair felt Salt surge eagerly forward between his legs. The horse charged after the wagon and though it seemed to take forever they drew inexorably closer until it was only half a length in front of them.

A shift of the reins to the left directed his mount up and around to the side of the vehicle, sandwiching Alistair and Salt between the coach and the steep cliff wall rising above the road. If the frightened horses shifted the wagon a bit more to the side, they'd be squeezed between the two—it was preferable to the alternative though, as the opposite side of the road had nothing more than a steep drop off to the valley below.

Wynne was clutching Bayard to her, still doing well to hang on while keeping the large man from being flung out of the wagon, her face pale and strained with the effort. The elderly mage wasn't going to be able to hold on for much longer.

_I guess the Circle has no spells for stopping runaway horses_, Alistair thought and grinned with feral amusement. "Yaaah," he yelled to coax just a little more out of Salt and the stallion shuddered, flicking his ears back before he put on a burst of speed that sent him past the front spinning wheel of the wagon. Now he could see that the reins had fallen down into the traces, and there was no way he was going to be able to grab them from there without jumping off of Salt and taking a chance on landing on the shaft. Not even he was that crazy.

Bayard was listing now, the jarring motion of the hurtling wagon and Wynne's waning strength bringing him precariously close to falling out—and down the side of the mountain. Way, way down. A dark shape in green leather leapt from the cliff face and over Alistair's head to land in the back of wagon. Ithlayn rolled to his feet in one stupidly graceful motion and lunged forward, grabbing Bayard's collar and jerking him back just as he was on the verge of slipping out of Wynne's grip.

The pair of chestnut horses were lathered with sweat and Alistair could tell the animals were wanting to slow, but fear and downhill momentum made them reluctant to do so. He shifted Salt's reins to his left hand as the grey stallion drew alongside the wagon horses and reached out with his right, grabbing at the leathers. They just brushed his fingertips before shifting out of range as the wagon careened around a bend in the road.

"Alistair," Wynne cried out, sounding even more panicked. He turned his head, sparing a glance over his shoulder at her but she wasn't looking at him at all. Her wide-eyed gaze was on the road ahead—or more specifically on the small child playing in the road a short distance ahead.

_For the love of… _He lunged at the reins again and this time, caught them up in his fingers and pulled back on both Salt and the coach horses reins at the same time.

Wynne held onto the bench seat, her knuckles white with fear. "Alistair," she called again, frantic.

"I know," he gritted between clenched teeth. They were slowing, but not fast enough, and the child was utterly oblivious to their approach as he lifted his hands up as though trying to catch something. "Ithlayn, help me!" he shouted desperately.

The Dalish elf yanked Bayard over the seat rail, slinging him into the back of the wagon. Then he hopped over the bench seat and down onto the rocking wagon shaft with inhuman agility and snatched up the reins off of the traces, adding his own strength to stopping the horses.

The child must have either sensed or heard their approach because he crouched down with his back turned to them, ducking his dark head down toward his hands.

Alistair hauled back on the reins with all of his strength and for a moment he thought they had succeeded—until one of horses stumbled as its hooves tracked over the child's body with soft thuds. Wynne made a choked sound of despair and Ithlayn hissed a curse as finally, they were able to bring the horses and wagon to a halt.

His stomach roiling, Alistair flung himself off of Salt and ran around behind the coach. The boy was sprawled out in the road on his belly, his hands tucked beneath his chest and—thank the Maker—_alive and moving_ despite the clear imprint of at least two large hoof prints on his dirty smock. "Stay still, Wynne will be right here," he said, dropping down to his knees as the boy—or at least he thought it was a boy though it was hard to tell with that snarl of dark matted hair—drew himself up onto his elbows and knees without a single whimper of pain.

The child rocked back onto his haunches, keeping his hands cupped together as he grinned impishly up at the dumbfounded King, his hazel eyes bright with excitement. "Butterfly," he said and opened his hands.

A large butterfly with shimmering blue and black wings clung to one small palm, fanning its wings back and forth.


	4. The Widening Gyre

_**Chapter 3**_

The little boy looked expectantly at Alistair, waiting for his reaction while the butterfly began to crawl across the small dirty palm, instinctively seeking out the highest point from which to launch back into the air. The soft blue glow of Wynne's healing settled over the child like a blanket and the sudden change in its perch startled the insect into taking flight.

It hovered near for a moment as though debating landing again and without even thinking about it, Alistair held out his hand. The butterfly swooped down before it seemed to change its mind and then fluttered out of range as Wynne ran up, seeking a more stable surface on which to alight.

The child made a small sound of disappointment as the insect flew away and then curiously regarded the healing glow surrounding him, stretching his hands out and turning them over as it started to fade away.

"Thank the Maker," the mage gasped with relief when she saw the little boy rising to his feet and clutched Alistair's shoulder. "I was not sure if the healing spell went off in time," she admitted, her blue eyes wide and face strained with stress and worry.

The King stood up, murmuring, "It's a miracle he wasn't hurt," and gave a slight shake of his head, blinking down at the youngster who stared back up at him with open curiosity. "In fact, I'm not really sure how to put this, but Wynne, he was fine before you ever even cast your spell," he informed her with a nervous chuckle and tried to ignore the fact that his hand shook when he ran it through his hair.

Wynne gave him an incredulous look, "Don't be ridiculous, there's no way he could have been uninjured. I heard the hooves strike him—I _saw_ them!"

"They did," Alistair said and shuddered, remembering how had his stomach had lurched when he felt the horse's sudden missteps as those hooves thudded over the child's body, the sickening sight of him being pushed face first into the road as he was run over. "But he was already getting up when I saw him, no tears or anything—like they never touched him. He was chasing a butterfly…" he said, lifting his hands helplessly. Kids.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she gave the boy a warm smile and beckoned him closer. "Let me check and see if you are all right, little one," she said, her voice warm and gentle.

Wordlessly, he edged away from her and toward Alistair, reaching out to slip his small hand into the man's larger one. He didn't seem afraid of her, but at the same time, his hazel eyes were wary as they met hers.

Occasionally when Alistair was out on his royal trips, people would thrust their children (and themselves, for that matter) out at him, hands extended toward him to touch his hands, his clothes, whatever they could reach. He never really understood that, because when it all came down to it he was just another man, but he indulged them anyway. However, this wasn't anything like shaking a child's hand while moving through a crowd of people. The boy's simple handgrip about his own seemed to indicate a level of trust he wasn't sure he deserved.

The thunder of hooves approaching heralded the arrival of his guardsmen, including a very irate looking Guard Captain Lyndon.

"Uh-oh, someone's in big trouble," Alistair muttered under his breath. When the child's fingers tightened around his own, he said cheerfully, "Not you, me."

"When are you not in trouble?" Wynne asked with a raised eyebrow before looking over her shoulder at the wagon. Bayard's dark head could be seen moving around while Ithlayn saw to the horses and she added in a grim tone, "Speaking of which, I'm going to make sure that Bayard is all right before I knock him over the head for putting us in such grave danger." Her blue eyes flickered down to the boy and her expression softened as she told him, "I will leave you in Alistair's good hands for now, but you must let him know if you hurt anywhere, all right?"

The child gave her a solemn nod and, satisfied with his answer, the mage strode toward the wagon.

"Your Majesty, I've told you time and again that we cannot protect you if you go riding off like that," Lyndon said upon dismounting, scowling at the King. "While I can appreciate your worry and regard for your Court Mages, there was no way of knowing who or what lay in wait for you on the road! There could have been bandits, Orlesian assassins, disgruntled dwarves intent on causing another landslide... You should have let your guards worry about stopping the wagon."

Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes—it wasn't like he thought things out before chasing after Wynne and Bayard. "Hmm yes, assassins and bandits and dwarves, oh my! And look, I've caught their leader!" he said with dry amusement, raising the small hand he held. "Don't let his size fool you, it took all of us to take him down. He was a real beast." Stiffening with surprise, the little boy's mouth dropped open and he looked uncertainly up at the man, who gave him a reassuring wink and mischievous smile in return.

Captain Lyndon focused his sharp gaze on the boy in the dirt-stained smock for the first time and his sour look worsened. "Who's this child? Where did he come from?"

"Well the Chantry told me that the good Fade spirits just swoop down and leave them in your arms, but according to Wynne, when a boy and a girl really love each other…." Alistair started in, and grinned at the guard captain's pained expression before sobering a bit, "We're not sure. He was playing in the road when the wagon…." He paused for a moment, glancing down at the boy and carefully continued, "Well—it's a miracle he's not hurt or dead."

And it was a miracle, there was no other word for it. However, if Wynne of all people was skeptical when told of the child's lack of injuries after being trampled, he was certain that Lyndon would be even less inclined to believe him. With that in mind, there was no point in even mentioning it. "Speaking of injuries," the young monarch said, diverting attention away from the boy by looking beyond Lyndon and down the road, "was that Seamus who nearly got run down? Is he all right?"

The Captain grimaced and shook his head. "The wagon hit him, and got him good. I'm pretty sure his leg's broken. Welborne was to get him settled in Quartermaster Fisk's wagon and bring him along. They should be arriving here shortly." The man squinted up at the sky and shook his head. "There's no way we'll make the Imperial highway by nightfall. The bridge over the river is just a few miles up the road and there's a clearing just beyond that will have to do as a campsite."

Alistair nodded, "Make it so. Bayard will have time to rest and recover fully, and Wynne can have a look at Seamus."

Lyndon's sharp-eyed gaze shifted back to his King and the little boy. "I shall have Rorick and Ithlayn scout around and see if they can't find the family."

"The family?" he echoed, confused.

The captain seemed somewhat surprised by his response and nodded, "Of course. The boy seems healthy enough and fed. Certainly he hasn't been living on his own, not at that age. If he's more than five years old, I'll swallow my sword. Likely he just wandered off, it's quite possible they don't even know that he's missing. By your leave, Sire?" Lyndon ducked his head down and walked off to confer with the scouts.

A slight frown touched Alistair's lips. He wasn't sure why he'd been caught off guard by the notion that there must be a mother or father out there who were probably worried sick about their missing son. The little boy was looking up at him and he grinned back, giving the small hand a gentle squeeze, "There, you hear that? You'll probably be reunited with your parents in no time flat." Something flickered in those hazel eyes, some inscrutable emotion that he could not quite put a name to, but the child said nothing.

Lyndon returned a few moments later and gestured one of the guardsmen forward, "I'll have Powell watch the child, your Majesty. Certainly you have better things to do with your time."

The young King raised an eyebrow, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the boy's, strangely reluctant to let him go. "Oh? Better things like what?" he asked with a wry smile. "He'll be fine with me. I think Wynne wanted to have another look at him anyway to make sure he's all right. As you were." He turned away from the guards in dismissal and walked toward the wagon, shortening his stride to make it easier for his small companion to keep up.

Bayard was sitting up in the back of the wagon, his face ashen pale against his black hair. Alistair wasn't sure if that was from the left over effects of his passing out, or the thorough castigation he'd received from Wynne, who was standing beside the wagon, her arms crossed and countenance grim. "Y-y-your Majesty, I am so very sorry," the mage stammered, his hands trembling. "I should not have tried to hide my exhaustion, not when it had the potential to affect so many people. My negligence resulted in two serious injuries and could have very well ended up killing someone as well. I shall tender my resignation immediately and return to the Circle of Magi," he stated, lowering his head with shame.

Wynne pursed her lips with disapproval, dropping her arms to her side as she gave Alistair a sidelong glance.

The King rested one hand on the edge of the wagon, considering the mage's downturned head for a long moment. Slowly, he said, "Those who cannot learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them. You think that you're the only one who's done something so bloody stupid others have paid the price for it? Not even I am immune to that, Bayard, as much as I might wish otherwise." He was vaguely aware of the boy's hand tightening around his own as he spoke in his most authoritative tone, the one Leliana had once referred to as his 'Royal Voice'. "I will not accept your resignation, Court Magi Bayard. You will not be permitted to return to the Circle of Magi."

The mage jerked his head up at the King's words. "Wh-what?" he said incredulously. "B-but Sire, if I... what if…?"

"Do you intend on letting your pride prevent you from admitting your weakness in the future?" Alistair asked.

The mage shook his dark head, his voice grim as he stated, "No. Never again."

Nodding, the King allowed the barest hint of a smile to curve his lips, "Well then, there you go." In a lighter tone, he added, "Besides, we can't have you leaving us when I'm so close to having you used to my refined and excellent sense of humor. What, you think I want to start all over with training someone new?" He straightened and called out to the balding guardsman standing near, "Powell, if you would please, drive the wagon to our camp."

"Yes, your Majesty," he replied and led his horse over, tying the gelding's reins to the back of the wagon before climbing into the bench seat.

Alistair spared a quick glance at Wynne, who gave him an approving nod as she stepped away from the wagon. "I could not have said it better myself," she murmured quietly when she passed him, shifting her staff from one had to the other. Quartermaster Fisk's wagon was just coming into view and they could hear the guardsman with the broken leg moaning from across the distance.

Bayard's face flushed with guilt at the sound and he climbed down from his wagon before making his way over to Seamus with Wynne, intent on making amends however he could. The blue glow of the magewoman's heals stilled the guard's pained cries and finally they were ready to move on to the campsite.

"You get your choice—which wagon did you want to ride in? The one with Wynne, or Guard Powell?" Alistair asked the little boy, who had still not released his handgrip on his. The blond-haired man chuckled as the boy pointed at him and then started walking, giving insistent tugs to pull him along. "I win out? Lucky me," he said cheerfully. Gathering Salt's reins in his free hand, the man and boy walked beside the horse but the little one's small stride made the pace slow going. The guardsmen refused to leave their King to lag behind and as a result, everyone crawled along.

After a quarter mile or so, Alistair had just about had enough of Captain Lyndon's impatient muttering and pulled his hand free to lift the startled boy up, settling him in Salt's saddle before climbing up behind him. Twining his small fingers in the grey stallion's mane, the little boy grinned broadly as he went on what was likely his very first horse ride ever.

Learning to ride horseback had been one of the few perks Alistair had found to being crowned King—he loved it. Ferelden tradition held that only the King and the guards and knights sworn to protect him rode horses. A rather idiotic custom in the current ruler's mind, it was also one he'd been edging away from by giving horses culled from the royal stables to the nobles he and Arl Eamon deemed loyal and worthy enough to receive them. Very few commoners even owned horses worthy of being called little more than nags, and only a fraction of those dubious mounts would ever be used for anything other than pulling carts, wagons and plows.

Chuckling at the child's enthusiasm, Alistair shifted his seat a fraction, altering his grip on the reins and giving Salt the subtle cues that made him change his gait from a walk into a high stepping parade trot. That got the boy giggling wildly and between that and the jarring steps, he had to tuck his arm around the child's stomach to keep him from bouncing right out of the saddle. After a few moments he let the grey stallion slow back to a steady ground eating walk. When the little one's laughter subsided, he leaned back into the man with contentment, not seeming to mind that the scale armor he wore made a poor cushion to rest against.

The change in pace meant it only took about half an hour for them to reach the bridge over Gherlen River. It was a sturdy stone and wood structure, spanning the wild river beneath. The banks were swollen by the spring snowmelt that rushed downstream and the shoreline on both sides was littered with slick, jagged rocks. Eventually the waters would reach Lake Calenhad to the East. When they were about a hundred yards from the bridge, Alistair resettled his grip around the little boy's stomach and turned his head, cocking one eyebrow at Captain Lyndon.

The man stiffened at the expression on his King's face, muttering, "Dammit," as he gathered the reins in his hands in preparation for what he knew was coming.

The curse had barely left Lyndon's mouth when Alistair kicked Salt into a gallop, the guard captain's own chestnut mare following a half a length behind. Gasping at the sudden change in speed, the boy closed his eyes, lifting his face to feel the breeze rush over his skin and stretching his arms out to the side like a soaring bird's as the horses raced forward and across the bridge, his expression pure joy. It only took a few moments for the horses to reach the opposite side of the bridge and when they slowed down to a walk before halting in the broad clearing that would be their campsite for the night, the child slowly lowered his thin arms and gave a happy sigh.

"You do that every time we cross that damnable bridge," Lyndon grumbled, clambering down to the ground and giving his mount an affectionate pat on the neck.

Alistair laughed as he slid to the ground as well, commenting, "Well I knew you'd be disappointed if I broke the tradition. It's good luck, I've decided. That and I love the sound of the hooves thundering over the wood planks. All right then, down you go," he said to the boy, lifting him off of Salt and setting him down on the ground. The boy wobbled at the sudden change from riding to walking and he took a few ginger steps as though trying to get his land legs back.

Both men began to remove the tack from their mounts and as Lyndon lowered his saddle to the ground, he glanced over at the child, who had given up on walking for now and sat cross legged in the grass watching them. "Not much of a talker, is he? When my sister's kids were that age, they'd near about talk your ear off."

The King shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "No, he's not. In fact, I've only heard him say one thing since finding him on the road. Perhaps he has nothing to say? That's quite all right—Wynne's said on more than one occasion that I talk enough for two people anyway," he stated cheerfully and the boy a wink, which earned him a smile.

"That's the Maker's own truth," the captain grunted.

The others rode into camp a few moments later and everyone settled into the familiar routine of setting up the campsite for the night. For a while the boy watched everyone bustle around, propping up tents, tying up the horses' picket lines and seeing that they had food and water, but eventually his eyelids began to droop. He ended up slumping over Alistair's saddle to sleep.

Wynne, with Bayard's help, had to set and heal Seamus' broken leg. The bones were knitting back together, but he would have to ride in the wagon for a couple of weeks as the limb was too weak to let him sit comfortably in the saddle despite the healing he'd received.

The hearty smell of Fisk's nug stew filled the air, the meat courtesy of their dwarven hosts from the days previous.

It was with great relief that Alistair finally had settled in enough to shrug out of his dragonscale hauberk. He slowly worked the leather and steel up and over his back and shoulders before letting it fall on top of his saddle blanket with a heavy thud. Rolling his shoulders, he arched his back and stretched, glad to be free of the extra weight. At least his days of travelling Ferelden at Lyna's side in heavy or massive plate armor were over, and travelling on foot, no less. _You're going as soft as a noble,_ he thought to himself with self depreciating humor.

"Alistair, might I have a word?" Wynne asked, walking toward him with a serene smile on her face—the smile she tended to have when she had some special torture in mind just for him.

He eyed her warily and said, "I'm feeling particularly generous tonight, so I'll give you two."

Unfazed, the mage nodded and ticked off two words in turn on her fingers. "Bath. Water."

"Pardon?" he spoke after a moment's hesitation, not quite sure he'd heard her right.

The warm light from the fire lit up her blue eyes with mirth. "Those were my two words. Bath. Water. As in, would you be willing to help a frail old woman draw some bath water?" she asked demurely and—did she just bat her eyes at him?

Alistair raised an eyebrow at her. He knew she loved baths but on the road, she always took one every other day. "Wynne, have you seen how slippery those rocks are by the river? Fisk nearly broke his neck bringing up water for supper. If I go down there, there'll be no need for Orlesian assassins, I'll slip, kill myself and save them the effort." And then he waited for it. She didn't disappoint.

Her eyes crinkled and she gave him a sad nod, "Very well then. Pity, that. I was going through my bags and found a huge chunk of halla cheese—my goodness, it must have been about this big." She spread her hands apart.

The King started salivating. "Halla cheese?" he heard himself say faintly. Not only was that particular cheese one of the finest in all of Ferelden, it also happened to be virtually impossible to get, which made it even more irresistible.

Wynne inclined her head and breathed a heavy sigh. "Oh well. Perhaps that nice lad Ithlayn would be willing to help me then, I'm sure he'd appreciate a taste of home…"

"You're wicked. You know that, right?" he said with a resigned sigh. "All right, where's the bucket. I don't know why you want a bath anyway, you smell fine to me."

She laughed and pointed over at the little boy, who was finally starting to stir to wakefulness. "Actually the bath water is for him. He's utterly filthy and that smock, well, I think I've got something more suitable in my bags for him to wear than that disgusting thing."

Alistair glanced in that direction and then scanned the camp. "Neither Rorick nor Ithlayn has returned with any news regarding the boy's family. I'm not sure if that's bad news or good news," he spoke with wry humor, turning toward the mage again.

Wynne nodded, looking between the child and man before she reached out to rest her hand on his arm. "Alistair, he's not a puppy you get to keep because he followed you home," she gently informed him.

He blinked at her and then flushed, lowering his head a little. "I know that. It's just..." His voice trailed off and he admitted, "I don't know. I've never really been around children before, other than Connor and since he was possessed by a demon at the time, I'm not really sure if he counts," he grimaced at that memory. "He's just so innocent and trusting. I've never seen anything like it. I think it's that, well, being around him is reminding me of things that I missed out on when I was growing up, and things that I'll miss out on again since it doesn't seem likely that I'll be having any more children, thanks to the taint."

Smiling sadly at him, she gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "You never know. For what it's worth, I think you would make a great father," she told him.

A choked laugh escaped him. "Thank you—for what it's worth." He shook his head to regain control of his emotions and patted her slender hand with his before tucking it in his arm. Together, they walked the short distance to her tent which was set up next to his. A pair of large empty buckets waited just outside. "I see you're well prepared," he said with dry amusement.

"Mmhmm. Fisk said dinner was done, so when you bring those up, we'll put them on the fire. By the time we finish eating, the water should be hot enough for the wash basin." Wynne smiled, "And don't eat too much. Remember, you'll be having cheese for desert."

"Oh please, dear lady. There is always room for more cheese," he said, chuckling as he picked up the buckets and headed down the rocky path to the river. Fortunately the excursion was uneventful and when he returned, Fisk was ladling out dinner. He helped Wynne set the buckets over the fire and then collected two bowls of nug stew, one large and one small and then settled down on the ground next to his saddle.

The little boy had been fully awake since he'd gotten back from the river, and his stomach growled audibly as Alistair passed him the small bowl and a spoon. "I see you're as hungry as I am. Be careful, it's hot," he warned as he dipped his own spoon into his dinner, blowing over the surface and started to eat. Wynne joined them a moment later, though she sat on an upended bucket instead of the ground.

After giving him an odd look, the child set the bowl down in his small lap and started shoveling the hot food into his mouth so fast that Alistair worried he'd choke. "Hey now, slow down! There's plenty more where that came from, no need to rush."

Wynne pursed her lips as the child frowned up at him, but ate slower at least. "He eats as though he hasn't eaten a decent meal in days," she noted.

"Not days, perhaps, but at least not since yesterday," Ithlayn stated as he walked into the camp. The human scout Rorick followed a few steps behind him. The others murmured quiet greetings to the pair of scouts.

It took a minute for the Elf's words to sink in. "Since yesterday?" Alistair echoed with disbelief, his food forgotten. "How do you know?"

Rorick shrugged, "Because that's when he came out of the river," as he accepted Fisk's dinner offering. Gesturing to the East with his spoon, he explained, "Sometime around noon, about a mile downstream. That's where he came up on shore, though I have no idea where he might have fallen in."

"Or been thrown in," Ithlayn said darkly, his tattooed Elvish features fierce looking in the flickering light coming from the fire.

The human scout grimaced agreement, muttering, "Or that, yes."

Silence lay over the campsite a dark blanket at the Dalish elf's words and the guardsmen's quiet chatter faded away. The little boy had stopped eating and stared down at his empty bowl, his small head lowered and, unsurprisingly, not saying a word.

Wynne was the first to speak, and she was aghast. "Are you telling me that you believe someone threw this child into the river? On what evidence would you base that assumption?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

"The river," was Ithlayn's simple reply. "Surely you've felt the water, how cold it is from the snowmelt from the Frostback Mountains. No one, not even a strong man, could survive in such icy water for more than a minute or two, and for someone as young and small as he is, his chances of surviving for long would be greatly diminished. It's quite possible he was thrown in from the bridge there." The elf gestured toward the Gherlen bridge with his hand.

Rorick nodded, "It'd make sense, if he had been. Carried along by the water for a mile before he was able to reach the shore. He'd have been half frozen but would still survive. Obviously," he added, his gaze resting on the boy's downturned head. "He curled up and slept in a mossy patch of grass just within the treeline. When he woke up early this morning, he made his way to the road and started walking toward Orzammar."

Alistair was so furious he did not trust himself to speak. What kind of monster would throw a child into a whitewater river? His fingers clenched so tightly around the spoon that it began to bend. A small dirty hand brushed lightly over his white knuckles and tried to calm his temper before mustering a smile for the little one. The child pulled the bent spoon free from the man's hands and frowned at it, then tried to bend it back into shape, poking his tongue out the side of his mouth as he strained with the effort.

"Perhaps he fell in?" Wynne suggested, as though hoping that was more probable than the alternative, that someone would be monstrous enough to push a small child off of a bridge.

The two scouts looked at each other without speaking before looking back at the mage, but it was Captain Lyndon who realized why they had reached their conclusion. "There weren't any tracks, were there?" he asked, his lips tight with anger.

"No, there weren't," Rorick stated, stirring his nug stew. "The only tracks by humans for miles, either up or downstream, occur at two spots. Right there," the scout pointed toward the narrow trail where Alistair, Fisk, and likely anyone else who'd ever used the clearing as a campground, had headed down to the river, "and where he came ashore downstream."

"If he'd fallen in, a normal person with any sense of decency would run down to the river and follow the bank downstream to see if somehow, he'd made it to shore in spite of the odds. Only no one did," Alistair grated, hardly even recognizing the sound of his own voice. The boy had given up on trying to straighten the bent spoon and returned it to him. With a quick twist of his wrists, the spoon was returned to its original shape. He held it up for the child to see and was rewarded with a pleased grin.

The others remained silent for now, returning to their meals. Bayard was sitting beside Seamus, no doubt still trying to make amends for his lapse of judgment earlier. He gave his soup bowl a dubious look and then scooped out a spoonful to eat. Thoughtfully he considered the taste for a moment and said, "Well, it certainly doesn't taste like chicken."

A few of the guardsmen snickered. Seamus poked at a chunk of meat in his soup, "No, but it's more like lamb, maybe. Lamb that's been incredibly over cooked and over seasoned. No wonder dwarves are so short, if this is one of the only meats they eat. Give me a chicken or some salted pork any day over this."

The child picked up his empty bowl, carrying it over to where Quartermaster Fisk sat by the stewpot. He lifted the bowl up, his eyebrows raised in a silent request for 'more.'

The heavyset man laughed, saying, "Oh, so ye be wantin' ta put a bit more meat on dem bones, are ye? Not sure if'n nug stew be good 'nuff for dat but it canna hurt." Fisk ladled out another serving into the small bowl and tousled his matted dark hair. Grunting, he glanced over at Wynne, "See if'n ye canna cut his hair a wee bit, 'tis bad 'nuff that he be kin to a wild sprout, no sense in 'im lookin' like a gel ta boot."

The boy frowned, cocking his head at the quartermaster while he reached up experimentally to feel his own hair. His brows drew together as he considered the length of it and the feel of it before looking around the camp at the other's hair. All of the guardsmen, Fisk and Alistair himself had short hair, no more than a few fingers in length. Bayard's hair was long enough for him to have decorative braiding worked in, but even then it was no longer than the collar of his mage robe. His expression remained thoughtful as he carried his bowl back to the King's side and sat down cross legged to eat his second helping, though at a normal pace now that the worst of his hunger had been sated.

After supper, Alistair carried the hot water into Wynne's tent and poured it into the round metal tub she used as a wash basin. Then, of course, he had to make one final trip down to the river for a bucket of cold water—the hot water was too hot, she said—and finally he settled down in front of his large tent to end the day as he typically did, by polishing his armor and sword.

He'd barely started buffing the russet dragonscales when he heard Wynne hiss, "By the Maker and all that is holy!" Tossing the armor aside, he rolled to his feet and quickly made his way over to her tent, not even bothering to announce his presence before he pulled the tent flap aside and ducked in. The steaming bathwater made the tent interior warm and humid.

She had her back to him, crouched down and Alistair could just see the boy's dark head in front of her, tinged blue by the glow of her healing spell. It took a moment for that to sink in, and his breath caught in his throat as he asked with disbelief, "He was hurt? This whole time?"

Wynne gave him a brief glance from over her shoulder and he instinctively took a step back at the raw fury in her blue eyes. Angry mages were A Very Bad Thing. She turned her attention forward again to the child and asked in a rough whisper, "Who would do such a thing to you?"

Alistair found his voice and made his way to her side, "Do what to him? Wynne, what's been ….?" His question trailed off when he saw the boy standing before her, naked but for his smallclothes, his dirty smock a wad of fabric balled up at his feet and—Maker's breath, were those holes in his shoulder? He sank down to his knees at the mage's side and studied the angry, puckered wounds, suddenly realizing there was something appallingly familiar about them. "Those… I've seen wounds like that. I've _had_ wounds like that. Those are spider bites, like the ones from those giant spiders we saw in the Deep Roads during the Blight." He lifted his right arm, pulling the sleeve of his tunic up to a pair of pale circular scars in the meat of his forearm. During the fight, he'd been pinned to the ground by one of the large arachnids and held his arm protectively over his head.

The child fidgeted at their inspection, his face drawn and worried.

"Just a moment longer, dear, I promise," Wynne soothed him with a tender smile. "That's not even the worst of it," she said to Alistair and with a brief move of her hand drew his attention downward to the boy's legs.

He almost vomited when he saw how many bite marks covered the boy's thin legs, scars identical to the ones on his forearm. There had to be dozens of them, they dotted nearly every inch of flesh on his thighs. "That's monstrous," he rasped out. "Who would torture someone like this? Especially a child?" Waves of anger emanated from him and his fists clenched. If he ever found whoever had done this, Andraste have mercy on them, because he sure wouldn't.

Wynne brushed her fingertips over two marks. "Some of these are old. See how these bite holes are further apart than the others? I suspect that is because they were among the first he received, perhaps soon after he was born, even. They've spread out as his body has grown, the scars shifting with his growth. This has been going on for a very long time." Her face was haggard as she looked into his eyes. "For years, Alistair. Years."

Murderous rage, that's what Alistair was feeling now. Even when he'd executed Loghain he'd never felt this level of fury before and it very nearly took his breath away. It was bad enough finding out the boy had been tossed away like he was nothing more than a piece of garbage, but what had been done to him prior to that was infinitely worse. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out as he tried to calm down by using the discipline learned during his years training as a Templar. It wasn't working this time.

The feathery brush of fingers over the furrowed lines on his forehead startled him into opening his eyes. The little boy was standing right in front of him regarding him with apprehension. "Angry," he said in a small sad voice, lightly pressing his hand into Alistair's face as though trying to smooth out his ill temper.

He sighed deeply, his brown eyes softening when he felt the rage suddenly melt away. By the Maker, did he think that Alistair was angry at him, for what had been done to him, like it was his fault? Lifting his hand, he took the child's and drew it down to give a gentle squeeze. "Not at you, little one." He forced himself to smile, "Now how about that bath? I suspect Wynne thinks you smell like a Dust Town nug by now."

"Very nearly," the magewoman agreed with a tiny grin. "Reminds me rather of you."

Alistair gave her a hurt look, complaining good naturedly , "I do not smell like a Dusk Town nug, I smell like dog. A big, mangy slobbering dog—from the Anderfels, no less."

Wynne laughed, her blue eyes twinkling. "That is rather what you smell like, now that I think about it, yes."

"Well that's what I was raised by, didn't I mention this? Dogs," Alistair gave the boy a wink as he helped him out of his smallclothes. "Lyna once said it explains my manners too, we went over this soon after we met, you know. Come on then, in you go," he said and lifted him into the washtub. He watched the boy get settled into the water and when he began to slowly wave his arms back and forth, watching the ripples of current his motions caused, the young man began to get to his feet. "All righty then, I'm going to head on back to my tent and…"

The child grabbed his arm and frowned, shaking his head, indicating his desire for Alistair to stay. He couldn't help but chuckle at the youngster's insistence. "Or perhaps not. Though I'm really not sure this is so safe, water is very dangerous for me," he confided with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

That earned him an inquiring look from the boy, and Alistair explained, "Because I'm so sweet. Sugar melts in water, you see. Now, Wynne here has nothing to worry about. Salt lumps."

Wynne dipped her fingers in the water and flicked them at him, spattering droplets all over his face.

"Hey!" he protested, laughing and the child giggled as well before imitating Wynne's gesture and spraying more water on him. "No ganging up on the King, or I shall be forced to call in my Royal Guards for protection."

"Enough play for now, you two," Wynne said, ignoring the fact that she'd started it by splashing Alistair in the first place. The magewoman picked up a cup, quietly directing the boy, "Tilt your head back." He complied, lifting his small face upwards. "Yes, that's good." After pouring enough water over the dark matted hair to wet it through to his scalp, she picked up the bottle of soap and herbs and poured a generous dollop directly onto his head before lathering it in with her fingers.

Alistair dipped his finger into the soapy lather and put a white dab on the boy's nose. The child grinned, his hazel eyes going cross-eyed as he tried to look at it. The bite marks on his thin shoulder seemed even more stark as the sloshing water washed some of the dirt away. "Wynne, I could have sworn I saw you healing him when I came into the tent," he said, looking at her.

Her expression tightened and she replied, "That was actually the third time I'd cast my healing spell on him, for all the good it did."

"Wait, are you saying that the spell didn't work?"

"Does it look like it worked?" Wynne asked, still scrubbing the child's head.

"Well, no, but I'm just saying…" Alistair's voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Does that happen often? I mean, I don't know a lot of mages as old as you are, does the magic just kind of fade away? Perhaps Bayard…"

She scowled at him, interrupting, "It has nothing to do with my magic. A mage's magic does not wither away like a dying plant in winter. If anything, it gets more powerful as we age and learn to use our skills at maximum efficiency." Wynne sighed and lifted the back of her hand to rub against her nose. "Give me your belt knife."

He was pulling it from the sheath before he'd even considered what she might do with it.

The mage rinsed her soapy hands in water and took it from him. With a quick jerk, she drew the blade over her finger before giving it back.

Alistair fumbled with the blade, cleaning it with a rag he kept tucked away before he returned the blade to the leather sheath. His brown eyes were wide with surprise at her action. "You're not going to whip out some blood magic on me, now of all times, are you?" he asked drolly.

She shook her head, watching as the blood welled up over the thin wound. The familiar blue healing glow settled over her body and the small wound closed almost instantly. She reached for a rag and wiped the blood away to reveal the thin white scar her healing left behind. "See? It's not my spell."

The pale blue light lifted and enveloped the child. The little boy squinted and held up his arm, poking it through the glow of her healing spell. But his wound remained unchanged.

Alistair watched as the spell faded and said slowly, "So, you're saying that healing magic won't work on him. That any time he gets hurt or sick, he's got to heal by natural means." Well that certainly wasn't good.

Wynne shrugged, smiling at the boy as she dipped the cup in water to rinse his head. "Perhaps. It occurs to me that healing magic may not be the only kind of magic that doesn't work on him." She pursed her lips, the worry lines in her face lengthening as she quietly informed him, "I can't help but think that if he's unaffected by healing magic, then there's a chance that he'll be similarly unaffected by all magic. Benevolent and malevolent."

"Rather like a dwarf then?" Alistair said, studying the boy's features. He didn't look like a dwarf child, he wasn't short or stout enough.

"Dwarven resistance, such as it is, is limited to only hostile magic, but nonetheless that is still a good analogy. Complete magic immunity though—I've never heard of such a thing in all my years as a mage, either by word of mouth or in anything I've read over the years. Until today, I would have thought it impossible." She reached out with a fingertip, brushing the soap off of the boy's nose and smiled, "Tilt your head back and close your eyes, so we don't get soap in them."

He flashed a quick grin and lifted his chin up, his eyes closing as she began to pour the water over his head with quick even movements.

Alistair had never heard of such a thing either. He watched as the water sluiced down over the boy's dark hair, rinsing away the soap and a thick clump of hair as well. Another matted lock dropped down into the water with a plop and he reached down to pull the dripping length out. "That's just gross. Wynne, what kind of herbs did you have in that soap anyway?" the King asked, wrinkling his nose as he shook it away.

Wynne's jaw tightened and she continued to pour cupfuls of water over the boy's head. "Nothing that would cause hair loss to this extent. It's the same bottle of soap I use on myself and I'm far from bald."

By the time all of the soap had been rinsed away, so had most of his hair. The snarled matted locks were all gone and the hair that remained was surprisingly even in length. "That's just creepy," was the best that Alistair could come up with as Wynne fished out enough of the shed hair to finish bathing the boy without getting her washrag all tangled up.

Thank the Maker, the rest of the bath passed uneventfully. The mage toweled him off from head to toe. His black hair was now as short as any of Alistair's guardsmen and somewhat spiky on the top. "It looks like you just gave him a haircut. Only you didn't," Alistair commented, reaching out to brush the palm of his hand over the dark spikes. It felt like, well, hair.

"As far as anyone else knows, that's exactly what I did," Wynne said firmly, giving the King a significant look as she pulled a small tunic over the boy's head and then helped him into a pair of pants. They were a bit too small, but definitely an improvement on the filthy smock he'd been found in. At Alistair's inquiring look, she explained, "These were for Bann Teagan and Lady Kaitlyn's boy, Bryce. He's just over three now but I wasn't sure how much he had grown in the past year. I made them large with the expectation that he'd be able to grow into them sooner or later. They'll do for this little one until we reach Redcliffe."

Wynne wrapped the shed swathes of hair in the long strip of cloth and then Alistair, with the help of the guard Welborne, lugged the water basin outside and emptied it. The boy followed them, grinning broadly as Fisk and a couple of the guards complimented him on his smart new haircut. They went to the privy and then returned to Wynne's tent, but the mage wasn't there.

Alistair sat down on the thick blanket Wynne had spread over the floor of her tent and sighed. It'd been a long day. To his amusement, the boy sat down beside him and sighed too, clearly imitating him. Laughing, he said, "This has certainly been a day full of surprises. I think I'm about full up on them, in fact." Quirking his eyebrows upwards, he looked down at his small companion to ask with playful trepidation, "You haven't got any more, do you? Surprises in store for me, that is?"

The boy tilted his head to the side in thought and held up three fingers.

"So—wait, so you're telling me you have three more surprises for me?" He sincerely hoped this was a joke, or at the very least, a misunderstanding.

Frowning uncertainly, the child lowered one finger after a moment, reducing the number to two.

"Two or three surprises. Yay. I hope my heart can take it," he muttered under his breath, giving the boy a sidelong look. "And you're not going to tell me what they are, either, are you? No doubt I'll have to just figure it out with my usual bumbling skill. Because that always works out sooo well," he drawled sarcastically.

That earned him a quick grin before the little one flopped over, resting his head on Alistair's thigh and giving his knee a comforting pat. Wynne returned a few minutes later and it was just as well. His leg was starting to fall asleep. The boy was so quiet and still that he thought he might have a fallen asleep, but he sat up as the mage began to putter around the tent, tucking away bandages and salves from treating Seamus' leg. The blonde King gasped as his position shifted, sending blood flow to his aching foot. "Ow ow ow tinglies, tinglies," he whimpered, trying to keep his leg as still as possible.

Quite deliberately, Wynne bumped into it as she passed him and he hissed in reaction, glaring up at her. "You're an evil, evil woman. And where's my cheese? You promised me halla cheese."

She laughed, inclining her head. "So I did." The magewoman reached into one of her satchels and pulled out a leaf-wrapped bundle. She carefully unfolded the fronds, revealing the distinctive mottled green rind of the cheese beneath. A few moments later the cheese was cut into small, white chunks. Alistair was given four, and Wynne split the remaining four between herself and the boy. "That's all you're getting tonight, so do not pester me with requests for more, young man," she said, shaking her finger at him.

The King popped a bite into his mouth into his mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the rich, sharp flavor and sweet aftertaste. "Maker's breath, that's some good cheese," he breathed with contentment.

"You really were not kidding when you said you had an unholy love of fine cheese, were you?" Wynne asked, chuckling as she lifted her own piece of cheese and ate it with typical delicacy.

"My dear lady, if there is one thing in life that I am always serious about, it is fine cheese," Alistair informed her sincerely. "I have to say, that's one of the best things about living in the Royal Palace, we never run out of cheese. And there's always so many different kinds! I see I'm not the only one who has such excellent and discerning taste," he gestured at the little boy, who smiled with delight as he finished his first piece of cheese. "There you go, boy, don't eat it too quickly or you don't have the chance to really taste it," he nodded with approval as he started in on the second piece.

Of course, the fact that the King had been given the most pieces of cheese meant that he was also the one who still had one more chunk left by the time the others finished. The little boy stared intently from that final piece of halla cheese up to his face and back down again. Alistair frowned when he saw the child's hopeful expression. "Oh come on, get on with you. This is fair. I'm the biggest of the three of us, so naturally I get the most cheese. It's not only fair, it's logical."

The boy's lower lip quivered.

"Look now, I…." He tried to avoid that pathetically sad face and of course, that meant looking at Wynne. The mage raised one eyebrow and he heaved a resigned sigh. "Ok, fine, take it. Quick, before I change my mind."

The chunk of cheese was gone almost as soon as the words left his mouth, though the broad grin he received from the boy made it worth the loss.

"It's a good thing the nobles don't know what a pushover you are," Wynne commented, a smile curving her lips.

"I am so not a pushover," Alistair said defensively. The little boy yawned and began to crawl over the man's leg to curl up in his lap. Instinct led him to settle the child against his chest. It seemed as though only moments had passed before the small body in his arms went limp as he fell asleep.

The mage chuckled softly, "I stand corrected. You are an oak." She got to her feet and was careful to fold the leaf fronds over the remaining bit of halla cheese before tucking it into her satchel again. When she turned back toward him again, her age face was solemn. "Alistair, we need to talk."

He grimaced, shifting the slumbering child a little. "Yes, I suppose we should, though I am not really sure what there is to say."

"First, I want to apologize to you," Wynne admitted, lowering her head. "When you told me that the boy had been unharmed after being trampled by the horse before I had ever healed him—or cast my heal spell on him rather—I should have believed you, or at least taken the time to question you more thoroughly before making a decision one way or the other."

Alistair shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. "That's quite all right. I almost didn't believe it myself, and I was there."

Tapping a finger along her chin in thought, Wynne shook her head. "So he is run over by a horse, but emerges from that unharmed. That makes no sense—why would it be impossible for a horse to trample him, but yet he still has spider bites covering his body. Perhaps he has a particular vulnerability to spiders, and just spiders?" she suggested dubiously.

"Well who could blame him for that? They are rather scary, especially the pony sized ones," he pointed out with a shudder. "Why'd his hair fall out when you gave him a bath, while we're throwing out the 'whys'?"

"That reminds me, I have something to show you," the mage told him and reached over for the length of cloth she had wrapped the boy's shed hair in, unrolling it in front of her. Digging in her sewing bag for a moment, she withdrew her scissors and glanced up at him. "Watch." Wynne worked the scissors with her hands, hacking at a lock of hair without any sign of actually cutting a single strand.

It wasn't exactly a miraculous demonstration, but it got the point across. "I don't suppose the scissors are just really dull?" he asked.

Without saying a word, she tugged a bit of her grey hair free of the bun she kept it tucked in and lopped off a swath with a quick snip of the scissors.

"Oookay. So his hair can't be cut and instead, what? He saw that the guards had short hair and decided that's how long his should be and the rest just, kind of broke off?" Alistair considered the boy's short dark hair and muttered, "Well I suppose it's just as well we're not in Avvar, or his hair might be down past his hindquarters."

Wynne put her scissors away and rolled the hair back up in the cloth to place in her mage satchel.

They stared at the little boy for a long moment, each of them lost in their thoughts. His small mouth hung half open as he slept, his cheek pressed against Alistair's arm and his hands curled up beneath his small chin. He seemed completely unremarkable.

"So what do we do?" Alistair finally asked, wincing as he shifted the boy in his arms. His muscles were stiffening from sitting in the same position for too long.

"I think it best that we keep him with us until we get to Redcliffe at the very least," Wynne said slowly. "And we keep his more unique attributes to ourselves."

"I agree. His secrets stay between you and I alone." His one-sided conversation with the child from earlier suddenly came to mind and he coughed quietly. "That reminds me, he happened to let slip that he's got a few other 'surprises' for us."

Her blue eyes sharpened as she asked, "What kind of surprises? Did he say?"

"No, he didn't actually 'say' anything," Alistair explained. "I commented that I'd had enough surprises today to last me for a good while and asked him if he had anything else up his sleeve. He showed me three fingers. So I asked if he meant he had three surprises and he nodded." His story seemed to ramble on even more than usual, but that was exactly how it'd happened, more or less.

Wynne studied the boy. "So three more revelations are in store for us. Well that doesn't bode well."

"Maybe he meant typical little boy surprises like the ones I used to have when I was his age, you know, worms in his pocket at the dinner, or the frog in the bread box," the blonde King said hopefully.

"Do you really think that's what he meant?" she returned, raising one thin eyebrow.

"You never know," he said with light humor and then added in a more serious tone, "I cannot help but think that the bite marks and scars have to do with some kind of blood magic. If it were just one or two bites, I'd be more inclined to believe that it had something to do with a spider attack he managed to escape from—like how I got the bite marks on my arm. But there are so many of them, and they're all on his thighs, and only on the front side at that. Perhaps he was used as the focal point of a blood ritual, though it's not one I've ever heard of, not even from when I was in training as a Templar."

The mage sighed, leaning forward to brush her fingertips over the boy's hair with a gentle motion. "Even if we've never heard of such a ritual, one thing is obvious. His blood would be a source of great power in the wrong hands, especially if our suspicions regarding his magic immunity and extraordinary durability are correct." Wynne's face was stony as she continued, "Let the Templar in you consider that frightening notion—a maleficar who was immune to both sword and spell. He or she would be virtually unstoppable."

Alistair's stomach turned over just thinking about it. "I'd rather not," he grimaced, shuddering. The movement jostled the boy enough that his eyelids fluttered and he made a quiet sound of protest.

"Enough talk for one night. It's bedtime, for all of us," Wynne said and gestured for him to lay the boy down on the extra bedroll she had stretched out beside hers. Together, they settled the boy down to sleep for the night and covered him with a thin blanket before Alistair retired to his own tent for the night.

Powell was standing guard just outside and the young King murmured, "Good night" to him before slipping beneath the canvas tent flap. One of the guardsmen had polished his dragonscale armor for him and laid it flat over his saddle blanket. Alistair made a mental note to ask Lyndon who, so he could properly thank the right person in the morning.

By the time he finished polishing Starfang, he was in serious danger of nodding off. After sheathing the runed black blade again, he blew out the candles and lay back on his large bedroll to sleep. Alistair woke up a short time later with a vague notion he was no longer alone in his tent. The reason why slipped in beside him and began to use his arm for a pillow. _Yep, must be as soft as a noble's_, he thought to himself and fell asleep again.

Alistair dreamed.


	5. Of Stony Sleep

**_Chapter 4_**

Alistair had only just turned five and had no idea what the word meant. But he could tell, just by the way Jacen had said it, that he'd just been called something beyond insulting. After weeks of being pushed around, tripped into the weapons rack, shoved into a mud hole, he'd had enough. He gave a snarl of fury and launched himself at the larger boy, kicking his legs and pummeling at his face. He got in a lucky shot and bloodied Jacen's nose before his opponent's size advantage gave him the upper hand.

The Knight's son slung him around by the arm and sent Alistair careening face down into the dirt. He choked back tears and sprang back to his feet, turning around to confront his attacker. A sudden yank at his shirt collar restrained him. Jacen was being similarly held back by a guard and twisted furiously in the man's grasp, blood streaming down his upper lip and his face contorted with rage.

"That soddin' brat attacked me! And I wasn't doin' nothin'!" the older boy shouted, panting with the effort to get loose.

"Is that true, Alistair?" Bann Teagan asked, looking down at the blond haired boy in his grasp. All of the fight drained out of Alistair between one breath and the other, and he lowered his head sullenly, refusing to answer. His lip was already swelling and his eye ached something fierce.

Of course, no answer was as good as a yes when you were in trouble at Redcliffe Castle, and he could feel Teagan's hand tightening in the fabric of his shirt as he ordered the guard, "Dorek, get Jacen cleaned up and take him to his father."

The boy gasped with dismay, "He started it, I'm tellin' you! Look at what he did to my nose!" He made the mistake of touching it and cried out with pain as more blood coated his face, tears welling up in his eyes.

The guard grunted, wrapping his hand around Jacen's arm as he dragged the boy toward the barracks. "I'm sure your da is just dying to hear how exactly your nose got pounded in by a boy two years younger than you."

Teagan didn't say a word as he marched Alistair toward the stables. The stablemaster took one look at the young Bann's expression and beat a hasty retreat, mumbling something about needing to talk to the blacksmith. Then he sat down on a hay bale in front of the boy so he'd be closer to eye level and asked, "Alistair, is that true? Did you hit Jacen?"

The boy set his jaw stubbornly, meeting Teagan's eyes and doing his best not to cry. The man's stern face indicated that he wasn't going anywhere until he heard the whole ugly truth.

"Bann Teagan, what's a bastard?" Alistair finally asked, figuring that he may as well ask what it meant, since it was the reason he was getting in trouble in the first place.

Teagan stiffened at the question. "Did Jacen call you that?" he asked after a moment, and suddenly sounded a whole lot more like he was seeing Alistair's side of the story.

Wiping his nose on his dirt-stained sleeve, the five-year old boy shrugged and looked down at the floor. "He said I wasn't nothin' but a bastard." He wanted to tell Teagan how Jacen had been shoving him all around and being a soddin' turd, but his throat got all tight, and his face and chest were hurting so bad that he couldn't hold back that first sniffle. Swallowing it back made his eyes squint up so much, and then a tear got free and before he knew it he was crying harder than he could ever remember.

The Bann wrapped his arms around him, hugging him close. By the time he stopped bawling, the man's red shirt had a dark stain of tears on the front and Alistair had a bad case of the hiccups. "Eamon will want to know about this," he said, rising to his feet, and the boy wasn't sure if that meant he was in even more trouble or not. He was on the verge of blubbering again but the feeling went away when he was given another warm hug.

Together, the man and the boy walked across the courtyard, and Alistair felt like everyone in the castle was staring at him when they made their way up the stairs up to those big doors, through the main hall and long corridor before turning to reach Arl Eamon's study.

Eamon was sitting at his desk staring down at some paperwork and looked up as his brother lead Alistair into the room. Teagan walked around the edge of the desk and leaned down, whispering something into the Arl's ears, and whatever he said made the other man sigh once and lean back in his chair.

The blond-haired boy wiped his nose nervously as both men stared at him. It was that very moment that he realized the truth. "I… I really am a bastard, aren't I?" he said, his lower lip quivering. It didn't matter that he still had no idea what a bastard was.

Arl Eamon leaned forward and spoke for the first time, and his pale blue eyes were warm and kind. "Alistair, a bastard is nothing more than a child whose parents never married. Your mother and…" he paused and glanced at Teagan before continuing, "…your father never married. So, yes, in that regard, you are a bastard."

He blinked at that revelation. That was all it meant, that his parents had not married? It had seemed so much more terrible and insulting from the way that Jacen had said it. But now it just seemed a bit of a silly thing to have gotten into a fight over. Still, at least he'd gotten in one good shot on the older boy, that very nearly made it worth while. Even so, he had to ask. "Is being a bastard a bad thing?"

Clearing his throat, Bann Teagan said, "It's not really a matter of it being bad or good, Alistair. You either are one, or you're not. It's not your fault they never married, and it's not something you can change about yourself, any more than I can change the color of my hair." The nobleman ran his fingers through his russet red hair and smiled ruefully, "As much as I might wish otherwise."

That made the boy grin, and he ran his small fingers through his own pale blonde hair. The cook said it was starting to get darker, but it certainly looked nothing like the Bann's. Alistair shifted his brown eyes over to Arl Eamon's hair. It was a light brown, almost golden in a certain light. Thinking over what he'd just been told, he cocked his head when he suddenly realized that no one had ever really spoken to him about his father, about what kind of man he was. His mother had been a serving girl at the castle—not Redcliffe Castle, but the Royal Castle in Denerim—he knew that much, and everyone said she had been sweet and kind. But this was really the first time anyone had mentioned his father, and he was almost ashamed to think that he'd never even wondered before now about who he was or the kind of man he had been.

"Did my father die before I was born too? And that's why I came to live with you?" he asked Eamon. "Did he live at the Royal Castle in Denerim?" Both men gasped at the same time when he asked those questions, and for a brief moment he thought he might be in trouble for just asking about it, though he had no idea why that'd be. But then he had a glimmer of a notion, and a hope as well, when he compared his hair to Eamon's another time. "Are you my father?"

Neither of them answered for an awfully long time and Alistair began to fidget in the silence. His nose had finally stopped running, but he wiped it on his dirty sleeve anyway.

Finally, Arl Eamon answered, shaking his head. "No, Alistair. I am not your father, though I took you in. And neither is Teagan, before you ask." He lifted his hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I knew eventually you would want to know, and I suppose now is as good a time as any that you know the truth." The man looked him square in the eye with such a serious look that the boy stiffened, squaring his small shoulders and lifting his chin. "But first, I want a promise from you. A vow, that you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you right now, or so help me, boy, I'll have your guts for garters. Do you understand me?" As if he weren't nervous enough, the Arl put his hands on the boy's shoulders to emphasize how serious he was.

He nodded quickly, feeling like he had the day he'd decided the water beneath the Redcliffe docks wasn't that deep at all. He'd jumped right on in, only to find that he was in way over his head.

Teagan gave a soft cough, explaining, "This is a promise you can't break. A solemn oath given." The man's quiet laugh sounded all choked and caught up in his throat when he went on, "Honestly, if you tell anyone, the vast majority of people will think that you're lying anyway, and that alone is a good reason to not say anything about it at all. And those that don't, well, I know this is hard to understand but it could be dangerous. Not just for you, but for your father as well."

That made no sense. How would other people knowing who his father was be dangerous for anyone, especially him? But even though he was only five, Alistair could tell that both Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan both believed it, and if they did, then so should he. "I promise not to tell." His fingers traced out the cross guard of Andraste's flaming sword over his heart, just so they knew for sure he was telling the truth. Then he held his breath and waited.

Eamon nodded, his glance flicking to his brother and he said, "There's not really an easy way to put this. Your father is alive, and yes, he lives at the Royal Palace in Denerim. Because, well… he's the King. King Maric Theirin is your father."

The air rushed from him in a soft whoosh of breath and he couldn't help the nervous giggle that erupted from his chest. "Are you having me on, now?" They had to be, of course, because what they said made no sense. But as he looked from Eamon to Teagan and saw how neither of them was smiling like this was the best jest ever and then it began to sink in. His father was not dead. And his father was the King of Ferelden. He swallowed, his small face drawn into a frown as he worked things out in his head. "Does that make me a Prince?"

The Arl shook his head and said simply, "No Alistair, it does not. Bastards cannot be Princes."

* * *

Nothing changed. He was the son of a King, but he still slept on hay in the stables at night. He fed slop to the pigs and weeded the garden and put a frog in the bread box, just to see what Cook would do. She fainted dead away and made it the scolding he got from Arl Eamon worth it right there.

When the scolding was done with, Eamon drew him close and reached into his desk drawer to pull out a necklace. "I should have given this to you weeks ago, when I told you about your father, but it took me a bit to remember where I'd put it away. Here."

Alistair took the offered necklace and looked down at it. The triangular silvered pendant dangling from the thin chain had an etching of Andraste's Flame upon it.

"That was your mother's," the Arl said with a smile. "She wanted you to have it, when you were old enough."

He was breathless and had to blink back tears when he put it around his head for the first time. It was the only link he had to either of his parents. He grinned broadly and threw himself at Eamon to give him a hug.

* * *

One morning he woke up and there it was, lying in the hay with him and curled up on his feet. It was a tabby kitten and had a bright red ribbon tied around its neck. "Happy Birthday! From E & T" said the little attached note. He was seven years old. He named it Trouble, because that's what he always seemed to be in.

His seventh birthday was also the first day that Teagan made him take lessons in the chapel with the Knights' and guards' children. Many of them seemed to resent his presence, seeing him as little more than a glorified servant. He'd grown taller and sturdier and they were careful about picking fights with him, not just because they all thought he was Arl Eamon's bastard—if only they knew the truth—but because he was tough and fast and wouldn't back down. Jacen's nose never did straighten out completely. He quickly learned that if he twisted their insults back on them by turning them into stupid jokes, they grew tired of baiting him and let him be.

Trouble followed him everywhere, almost like a dog, and no one said a word about it because everyone knew the cat was a gift from Eamon and Teagan. Between the many tidbits of food the kitten was slipped, and the vermin he caught around the castle, he grew to be a very big cat indeed. "Half lion, and twice as fierce," Bann Teagan said on more than one occasion.

* * *

The Hero of the River Dane and Commander of the King's Army, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, came to Redcliffe Castle while Arl Eamon was gone to Orlais. The whole castle turned out to greet him when he rode in on his bay warhorse, his silverite armor gleaming in the sunlight. The horse had a long, hooked nose and flat, unfriendly eyes. So did its rider.

Bann Teagan woke him up late that night and made him go up to the castle, into Arl Eamon's study. He would not even meet Alistair's eyes as he gestured for the seven year old boy to go into the room where Loghain waited, brooding in silence by the fireplace, and quietly shut the door behind him.

The large man walked toward him, his silver armor clanking and hawkish face drawn into a sneer as he looked Alistair over from head to toe. "Bann Teagan tells me that you've been told the truth about your unique heritage," Loghain enunciated the last two words with all the severity of a judge announcing a death sentence.

"Yes, your Grace," the boy said formally, realizing stupid jokes would do nothing more than irritate this man, and Loghain Mac Tir was not someone you would ever want to irritate.

It took every ounce of courage he possessed not to step back when the imposing man leaned down and met his eyes. "Then I trust that you have no delusions of grandeur about your future," he said grimly.

Alistair shook his head and said in a monotone, "I am a commoner and a bastard. Bastards can't be princes. Or kings."

* * *

The place was in an uproar and there were more guards around than you could swing a dead cat at when King Maric and Prince Cailan arrived in Redcliffe Castle. Arl Eamon had only been married to the Arlessa for a month, and rumor had it that the King was infuriated with his lifelong friend for marrying an Orlesian woman.

_Wait till he meets the shrew_, Alistair thought to himself. She'd hated him from the moment they met, and that was before he tripped over the edge of a rug and knocked a bottle of wine over her best velvet dress. He knew why she despised him though, because she thought he was Eamon's bastard son. Arl Eamon might love the woman, and from his besotted, soft-eyed expression every time he looked at her, the boy had no doubt he did. But the man still didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth about who the clumsy orphan in his care's sire really was.

So the moment finally came when he met his half-brother face to face. "Greetings, your Highness," Alistair said, bowing politely just as he'd been taught before looking up at the sixteen year old boy with features so similar to his own.

Cailan studied him with mild curiosity. The Prince inclined his head once in acknowledgement of the greeting before he turned his attention to the man at his side. "Now then, Bann Teagan. You said something about showing me the armory?" And that was that.

Alistair never spoke to his father face to face. On more than one occasion during the days he was at Redcliffe Castle, though, he would look over and see Maric watching him. The King's blue eyes were always dark with emotion, and even though he was only eight years old, he could both see and understand what he saw in them. Regret.

* * *

"You never wanted me here!" he raged, trying his hardest not to cry and failing miserably. "I've been nothing but a burden for you all along, haven't I?"

"Alistair, please," Arl Eamon begged, raising his hands in placating gesture and his expression torn and guilty. "That is not it at all."

Sneering, the ten-year old brushed away tears with the back of his hand. "Isn't it? Now that I'm old enough, you can kick me out like you've always wanted, can't you? I don't care, maybe at the Chantry they'll at least care enough about me to let me sleep in a real bed instead of on a pile of hay in the stables!" He felt hot and flushed and he could feel the cool ceramic of his mother's necklace against his skin. Without even thinking, he yanked it off with a quick jerk and threw it at the wall. It shattered into pieces.

* * *

The thing he hated the most about living in the Chantry was the silence. It was always training, lessons, the Chant of Light, or silence. Sometimes, he thought he'd go mad with the silence and one time, he felt as though he nearly did. He screamed, a long, drawn out sound that filled the silent void and echoed through the stone walls of the monastery. Priests and brothers alike came running to see if he was all right, and then stared in disbelief as he dissolved into loud, raucous laughter.

There was never silence in the kitchens, not with the quiet rattle of pots and pans, and the gentle scrape of the scrub brush over their surface. Screaming never got old.

* * *

All of Ferelden went into mourning when King Maric died. He was seventeen and felt something—some unidentifiable emotion that he could not put a word to. Was it grief? Regret? Bitterness? How do you mourn a father you never knew?

* * *

Alistair went from being sound asleep to full awake so suddenly that when he bolted upright in his bedroll, he was quite disoriented. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings, he had not dreamed so vividly since those final weeks before the Blight ended, when it seemed as though he could feel the Archdemon watching him through his dreams. These dreams had seemed just as real, if not more so.

Judging from the amount of light coming through the slivered opening in the tent flap, it was just after dawn. The others were beginning to stir as well from the sound of it. He could hear the quiet rumble of Fisk's voice and smell breakfast cooking. The little boy was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if he'd dreamed that as well.

Despite getting a full night's sleep, he felt drained and out of sorts. His eyes ached and when he raised a hand to rub his cheek, he suddenly realized his face was streaked with dried tearstains. "Definitely no more Halla cheese before bed," he muttered to himself as he got up. The first thing he did was wash his face and he felt a lot more human after that.

A thin layer of frost coated the ground and trees in the area, and there was still a distinct bite to the air when he emerged from the relative warmth of his tent. The King was glad he'd put his gambeson and scale armor on, they provided a bit more protection from the chill.

The thin, lanky guard on duty outside his tent gave him a quick nod, "Good morning, your Majesty." His breath misted in the cold.

"Morning, Merrill," he returned, stretching and rolling his shoulders as he looked around the camp. It seemed everyone was up and moving about with the exception of Bayard. Lyndon and the guards were helping break camp. Wynne and the boy were sitting on a log in front of the fire eating a breakfast of pan biscuits and bacon while the Quartermaster stowed things away.

"Rough night of it, Sire?" Merrill asked in a low voice without looking at him. "Powell and I noticed that you, ah, didn't sleep nearly as soundly as you usually do."

Alistair reddened with embarrassment. Maker, had the whole camp heard him blubbering in his sleep? "I hope I didn't wake anyone up?" he asked carefully and gave the guard an inquiring look.

Understanding the nature of the question, Merrill shook his head. "No, Sire, of course not. We heard mumbling rather than the usual snoring, is all. Looked in on you, beggin' your Majesty's pardon, but you were clearly out of it. Wasn't even loud enough to wake the boy. Powell's right put out with himself about the boy slipping past him and getting to your tent without him knowin' by the way, but he figured since you didn't call for him to be hauled out, you must not have minded too much."

Relaxing at the reassurance, the King gave his guard a crooked smile, joking, "Had a nightmare about Bann Xorien's wife coming to the castle for a royal visit again," with an exaggerated shudder.

The thin man snickered and made a face at the mention of the notoriously homely woman, with a foul personality to match. "You reckon the Maker dropped her into the ugly tree and she hit every branch on the way down?"

"Probably figured it couldn't hurt," Alistair quipped. Wynne turned to look at him with a smile and he lifted his chin upwards in greeting before giving a wave. "How long ago did the boy get up anyway? I must have been really out of it, I'm usually not such a heavy sleeper."

"About an hour, I'd guess? He's been following us around, watching and keeping quiet." Merrill's eyes were lit up with amusement. "Welborne let him tag along when he went to give the horses their nosebags and when he turned around he realized the tyke had gone down the picket line behind him and untied the horses as they went along."

The King chuckled. It sounded like something he'd have done at that age. "Cheeky."

The guard grinned, "Cheeky indeed. Luckily, the animals were all more focused on eating than wandering off, but Captain Lyndon was a bit put out about it and gave him a scolding. Not that the boy seemed to care, he just stood there staring up at the Captain through it all without saying a word. After a few minutes, the Captain gave up on the lecturing, picked him up like a sack of potatoes and carried him over to Wynne. She's been keeping him out of trouble since."

"She's quite good at that, isn't she? It's worked on me for what, nearly six years now?" He could feel his stomach rumbling hungrily and gestured at his tent. "Everything's ready to go into the wagon, just leave my sword and shield." He may have been King but he still kept both within reach when he travelled—he felt naked without their familiar weight on his back, and his armor too, for that matter. The neckline of his dragonscale armor pressed into the back of his neck and he shifted it a touch, adjusting how it was settled on his shoulders. "Oh that reminds me, who's to blame for my shining armor?"

"Seamus, your Majesty," Merrill responded, gesturing at the guard who was hobbling around on a crutch someone had made for him. "Said it was the least he could do since he'd be about as useless as tits on a boar until his leg's better."

Alistair thanked the guard and began to make his way around the camp, pausing to exchange quiet words of greeting with Seamus and the rest of his men as he did every morning. It was something he'd gleaned from his time spent with Lyna, when they'd travelled all over Ferelden with their hodgepodge group of companions. Most of the guards were looking forward to getting out of the mountains and reaching the relative comfort of Redcliffe Castle, and sleeping on beds meant for men and not dwarves like the ones in Orzammar.

Bayard was just emerging from his tent when the King collected his breakfast plate from Fisk and sat down beside Wynne to eat. A night of rest had clearly done the Court Mage some good, for he showed no lingering traces of the strain and exhaustion he'd displayed the previous day. He went over to Seamus, much to Alistair's amusement. The guard had confided in him that Bayard's profuse apologies were starting to get more painful than the injury itself had been.

Wynne wrapped her thin fingers around her mug of tea and shifted away from Alistair when the little boy moved around to squeeze between them. "He's been waiting for you to get up, I think," she said with a smile and tousled the child's short, dark hair as he looked up at the man. He was still clad in the clothes that the mage had given him last night, and though he still had no shoes, his feet were protected by a pair of woolen socks. Someone had wrapped the boy in a fur cloak to keep him warm, and the thick wrapping all but swallowed his small body up.

"Has he?" He gave the boy a sly wink, "I heard you've been busy helping Welborne feed the horses, among other things."

The grey haired woman smiled, "Yes, Captain Lyndon is quite put out with him at the moment, if Merrill didn't tell you." She finished the last of her breakfast and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I've been meaning to ask you, has he told you his name yet?"

Alistair blinked at the question. "No, actually. Not that I've asked, now that I think about it. Some manners I've got. Why, what is it?" he asked before taking a bite of food.

"I have no idea, he wouldn't say." She ducked her head down and her blue eyes were warm and kind. "What is your name, little one? What are you called by?"

The boy stared back at her without expression and said nothing.

She rested her hand on her chest and patiently said, "As I said earlier, my name is Wynne. And this is Alistair." The child shifted his gaze from her to the man at his side, tilting his chin as he peered upward, but he remained silent.

Suddenly thinking back to the one-sided conversation he'd had with the boy the previous night, Alistair asked, "Is your name a secret?" The child frowned in denial at that question. "Oh well, it was worth a try. Though I'm not sure if I should be disappointed or relieved, I confess."

Wynne sighed. "Perhaps he isn't comfortable enough with us to tell us his name yet."

"Have you tried guessing? You know, throw out some names and see if one gets a reaction?" he suggested hopefully and then made a face when the boy shook his head again. "Blast it. It's probably just as well, I despise guessing games. Well this won't do, what're we supposed to call you, 'Hey you'?"

The child shrugged, starting to look bored with the whole discussion.

"I was hoping you would have better luck than I had," she admitted. "I suspect he will tell us his name when he is ready." Her gaze was inquisitive as she observed, "You slept late this morning. You're usually up even before I am."

"Sorry bout that," Alistair apologized after swallowing down a bite of his biscuit. "You know how I need my beauty sleep. Not that it did me much good last night," he added ruefully.

The mage studied his weary face and clucked with sympathy. "I am sorry, Alistair. When I woke up and saw he was gone, I suspected he'd slipped into your tent and your guard Powell confirmed it. However, he said you were both sleeping soundly, so I told him that the boy would be fine staying there the night, since you apparently had no complaints. In retrospect, I should have kept a more careful eye on him so he didn't keep you awake. You look as though you barely slept a wink."

Absently breaking a piece of bacon in two before offering half to the child, he corrected her, "Oh I slept all night. I just dreamed so much, I feel like I didn't get any rest at all. I mean, usually I have one or two dreams that I can vaguely remember, but last night… I'm not sure if it was the Halla cheese or what, but I haven't dreamed so intensely since the Blight."

"Bad dreams, then." Wynne's words were more a statement than a question. She and the others had been awakened on more than one occasion by both Alistair and Lyna during those final days before the Battle of Denerim.

They hadn't been so much bad dreams as they had been memories, now that he was awake and thinking about it, bad and good memories. Some were of things that he'd put out of his mind for years. Alistair was a man who was much more content to focus on the present than he was to brood over his past or just as bad, worry about his future.

The little boy ate the piece of bacon and licked the crumbles and grease off of his fingers. The fur cloak's hood kept dipping down over his eyes and he pushed it back over his neck with an impatient gesture. Nonchalantly, Alistair reached over and pulled it back up, giving the front edge enough of a playful tug downward that it now covered the child's entire face. He froze and then huffed, pushing it back up again before peering up at the man with suspicion

He shrugged, trying to look his most innocent and pointed at Wynne, who quirked an eyebrow at them. "She did it. I'd never do such a cruel and nefarious thing," he announced, and pulled the cloak down over the boy's face again, which made him giggle. "Ack, it's a bear!"

Wynne watched their antics, lifting her cup to take a sip of the cooling tea. In a low voice, she observed, "He's growing quite attached to you, you know. Which is not really a surprise, I suppose. Given what little we know about him, it's quite possible you were the first person to ever show him any kindness or compassion."

"That's not such a bad thing, is it?" Alistair asked and grinned as the boy lurched to his feet with the cloak still drawn over his head and hanging over his short arms. Low growls came from beneath the grizzled brown fur. "Who let this bear into the camp? I specifically remember saying that no bears were allowed—wolves, yes. Lions? Naturally. But I draw the line at bears!"

The child laughed with delight and growled even louder, lumbering around as though searching for someone to maul. He made his way around the end of the log, intent on coming up behind both Alistair and Wynne for his 'attack'.

"Not necessarily, but I'm not sure it's a good thing either. You are the King of Ferelden, after all," she gently reminded him and wrapped her hands around the mug.

Gasping in shock, he stared at her with his jaw hanging slack. "By the Maker, you don't say? And I never noticed?"

Wynne gave him a long, steady look before taking another sip of her tea. "Alistair, if you were any other man, it probably wouldn't matter. But you _are_ the King. People are going to notice the presence of a little boy in your royal entourage, especially if he's riding in the saddle with you when you parade through town."

As much as he wanted to argue with her, he knew she was right. Kings, even Ferelden ones, did not pick up foundling children off of roadsides and keep them. While he understood the reasoning behind the little boy's attachment to him, it did not explain Alistair's own—connection?—he wasn't quite sure what word was appropriate to describe his feelings. Certainly he wanted to protect the boy from further harm and from anyone who'd use the unique gifts he possessed to their own ends just as much as Wynne obviously did, but beyond that? At the end of it all, he supposed it had to do with the fact that he'd just recently lost his own child. He had just shifted his desire to be a suitable father to the first convenient target he'd found.

The 'bear' attacked him from behind with a fierce snarl, throwing his thin arms around the man's neck and clinging to his shoulders. "He got me, I'm done for!" he exclaimed and dropped his plate. Moving his hands to hold the boy in place, he stood up and spun around a few times until they were both dizzy and he was laughing so hard he had to sit down before he fell down.

The moment his feet touched the ground again, the boy let go of him and staggered back, chortling and shaking his head. He careened into Wynne and hung on to her robe sleeve breathlessly as he waited for the dizziness to fade.

"Maybe we could pass him off as a royal page boy?" Alistair murmured as the world slowed down its spinning and he picked up his plate again. He carefully rose to his feet and held out his hands to take Wynne's dishes as well before carrying them over to drop into the wash bucket.

She considered that as she hooked an arm around the boy and drew him into her lap. "He's a bit young for that, but it's not a bad idea. Perhaps he could be passed off as a page boy in training. Though honestly, if I keep him at my side, I doubt people ask too many questions. That is one advantage of being a mage." Her lips quirked up in a wry smile, "I suspect half the time they fear the answer."

"He'll need clothes when we get to Redcliffe. And shoes, for that matter," the King said, focusing on more practical matters as his gaze dropped down to the boy's feet. The wool socks were damp from where he'd walked around while pretending to be a bear.

Bayard had just collected the remaining two biscuits and bacon for his breakfast and Fisk was doing the last bit of clean up before they finished breaking camp and got on the road again. "Clothes and shoes, Sire?" he inquired, having just caught the tail end of the conversation.

Wynne nodded and shifted the squirming little boy in her arms. "For this one. It won't do to have him walking around in naught but clothes too small and a borrowed pair of guardsman's socks."

The black-haired mage looked nonplussed. "Oh."

"Do you have some objection to that?" she asked, tilting her chin up to look at him.

Bayard had just taken another bite from his biscuit and struggled to swallow it so he could talk without a mouthful of food. "No, of course not. It's just, well, I suppose I expected we'd be leaving him at the Chantry in Redcliffe. Or an orphanage, assuming the village is large enough to have one? I admit I haven't spent a whole lot of time away from the Circle, so I'm not sure what is normally done in such a situation, when a child has no known family or home to return to."

Alistair avoided looking toward Wynne at the other man's words and focused on readjusting his arm bracers. They did have such a tendency to slip.

"That is what is typically done, yes," the magewoman acknowledged, "but I was just telling King Alistair that given the potential severity of his injuries, I think it might be best if I keep an eye on him until I can be sure he's completely healed." The Court Mage exchanged a veiled glance with her King.

Grimacing, the mage ducked his head with guilt. "I still feel completely awful about yesterday." Bayard walked over to crouch down in front of the boy, who gave him a curious look. "I'm so very sorry about that, er..." He paused in the middle of his apology, admitting sheepishly, "In all the excitement, I don't think I ever caught his name."

Chewing his lower lip as all three adults looked at him, the child began to finger the edge of his borrowed fur cloak and said nothing.

"Nathan." Alistair supplied the name without even thinking about it.

The little boy stiffened and then a broad grin spread across his small face. "Nathan," he repeated and nodded vigorously.

Wynne's eyebrows twitched but she said nothing.

"Ah! Well then, Nathan, as I was saying," Bayard continued, "I'm very sorry and very relieved you're all right." He patted the boy on the knee.

Alistair cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So, Bayard, were you planning on driving the wagon today? I'll need to tell Powell if you think you're not up to it…"

"Yes, I did," the mage responded, standing up again. "At least, if there are no objections that is," he said and gave Wynne a crooked smile.

"I do not mind, so long as you feel you are up to the task," she returned.

Bayard reassured her, "I am fine, I swear it. And should I feel any bit of weariness coming on, I will tell you at once." He turned, aiming a slight bow in the King's direction before excusing himself to go help take down his tent.

Nathan wiggled free of Wynne's arms and down to the ground before making his way over to Alistair. He peered upwards and raised his hands in a wordless demand for 'up.'

Laughing, the King bent down and lifted the child, settling him in his arms. "Ready to head on to Redcliffe, are you? It won't be long before we head out."

Wynne levered herself to her feet and moved close to them. She adjusted the cloak on the boy's shoulders and when he turned to look at her with his hazel eyes, she asked him, "What is your name?"

"Nathan," he stated firmly and lifted his small hand to his chest. The simple gesture mimicked the same motion she had made earlier, when she had tried without success to persuade him to tell them his name.

"I said I didn't like guessing games. I never said I wasn't any good at them," Alistair pointed out with a half-hearted grin, but he understood her unease. The boy had to have a name for them to maintain a sense of normalcy and Nathan was the first name that had popped into his head. That didn't explain the child's immediate acceptance of the name as his own, unless he had happened to guess it outright on the first try—out of the thousands of other possible Ferelden names.

"Mmm," was her noncommittal response. "Why that name? Was it what you would have named Chana's babe, had it been a boy?" she queried, studying him intently.

The question caught him off guard. It took him a moment to formulate a response, and when he spoke, he could hear the pain in his voice as he admitted, "No. We were going to name him Duncan." The little boy shifted in his arms and rested his head on Alistair's shoulder.

Her blue eyes darkened with sympathy and she rested her hand on his forearm. Wynne shifted her gaze to Nathan and she ruffled his hair with her fingers. "You know what it means, don't you? His name, that is?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Not offhand, why?"

The magewoman pursed her lips thoughtfully and walked away.

The name's meaning came to him later when the little boy was dozing in his arms as they rode Salt.

_Given._

* * *

This segment of the journey from Orzammar to Redcliffe went far more uneventfully than it had the previous day. The royal procession reached the Imperial Highway and turned south to travel along Lake Calenhad. The number of settlements increased by the mile along the road that made such an important part of Ferelden's trade network.

It was with some reluctance that Alistair handed Nathan over to ride in the wagon with Wynne. The boy sighed, but that was the only sign of complaint he made as the mage settled him between herself and Bayard on the bench seat.

Captain Lyndon and five of his guardsmen flanked King Alistair as he ranged further ahead of the wagons. News of his arrival spread quickly the closer they got to Redcliffe and as a result, more of his subjects emerged from their homes and fields when he rode past, waving, bowing, and smiling at him. He always felt rather silly at such times, raising his hand to acknowledge their adulation from atop Salt, but it was just one of those things that Kings did, he supposed.

Nowhere in all of Ferelden was he more popular than he was in Redcliffe, because the citizens saw the King as one of their own since he'd grown up in Arl Eamon's castle. They certainly did not forget that he fought and bled alongside the townsfolk and militia helping defend the village from the undead armies during those terrible days after Eamon was poisoned. The Chantry there claimed that he'd been blessed by the Maker himself when he, Lyna and the others had returned from the Ruined Temple with Andraste's ashes and cured the Arl of his illness. Lyna might still be known as the Hero of Ferelden, but Alistair was the hero of Redcliffe. They were a little biased, of course.

The milling crowd of happy subjects slowed their progress as they passed through the village on the way to the castle. Alistair and the guardsmen kept the horses moving though, and eventually the number of people began to thin out as they made their way up the sloping road that wound up to the castle. Quartermaster Fisk had led Bayard's wagon along a different route that bypassed most of the crowd and thus, they were waiting in the clearing by the windmill.

Wynne carefully climbed out of the wagon and then lifted Nathan down to the ground as well. She held his hand and together they made their way over toward the road.

Alistair beckoned for the guards to wait a moment and directed Salt toward her. Resting his elbow his thigh, he leaned down to speak to her. "Heading on into the village already?"

"It'll be sundown soon, and the shops will be closing, if they haven't already, since they practically declare it a holiday any time you come here," she pointed out with a slight smile. "I think it best that he look as unremarkable as possible, and having clothes—not to mention shoes—will help. We won't be long."

"Agreed. You have enough money, right?" he asked.

Wynne opened her mage satchel and withdrew the coin purse Alistair had given her back in Orzammar. Her blue eyes were bright with mirth as she gave it a slight jingle. "Oh, I think we'll be fine," she said serenely.

Alistair winced, muttering with good natured humor, "I knew I was going to regret giving that to you." He gave Nathan a stern look. "Don't let her spend it all in one place—and none of those high-collared doublets. They itch."

The little boy nodded.

"Oh, a doublet! That sounds splendid, perhaps in purple, pink and green!" Wynne declared, using her staff for a walking stick as she and the boy began to walk down the road to the village.

The King grinned, wheeling his horse around to rejoin his guards. A short time later, they had ridden their horses through the portcullis and into the courtyard, where Teagan and his family all waited, along with an honor guard of Knights from the castle.

A hostler held Salt's reins as the King dismounted and all of those present bowed low with respect for their monarch as he made his way over Teagan.

"Your Majesty, welcome to Redcliffe Castle," Teagan said, straightening up with a warm smile.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan, or should I say Arl Teagan?" the King asked, with a mischievous grin as he held out his hand. Eamon had only recently decided to abdicate his Arling to his younger brother, so he could focus on his duties as the Royal Advisor and Chancellor.

Laughing , Teagan clasped Alistair's hand and gave it a firm shake, "Well you know how it is. No good deed goes unpunished. You remember my wife Kaitlyn and my son Bryce?" He gestured toward them.

"Of course, how could I forget?" Alistair asked, flashing a quick grin at the two. "You're looking as radiant as ever, my Lady, and Bryce is growing like a weed, I see."

Lady Kaitlyn was a far cry from the frightened girl Alistair had met more than five years ago in the town Chantry when the dead were walking at night. She glowed with happiness at her husband's side and dipped into a low curtsy. "It's good to see you again, your Majesty," she returned with a smile, resting her hand on her son's red head.

Only three, Bryce's round cheeks were still dimpled with baby fat, but he gave a deep and formal bow to greet the young king. Clearly he'd been practicing. "Like that, Papa?" he asked, looking up at his father who laughed.

"Exactly so, my boy. Well done," Teagan said in approval and gestured for Alistair to precede him through the doors. "Come in, come in. You must be bone tired after travelling all the way from Orzammar. I expected you this afternoon, actually, but your scout Rorick showed up earlier today and said there were some delays?"

"When aren't there delays?" he asked with amusement as he walked into the main hall. "Nothing too serious, though. A bit of a rockslide is all, but it took us a bit to get it cleared away."

The bearded man nodded, "That's good to hear, at least. Honestly, it's just as well, it gave us a bit more time to prepare for your arrival," he confessed, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"For which we are quite grateful," Kaitlyn agreed, hefting her son up onto her hip as she followed them into the hall. "Between you and the other guests, well, the whole castle has been in an uproar. Not that we mind, of course," she hastened to reassure him. "We are always thrilled to have you stay with us, your Majesty."

"Other guests?" Alistair echoed, looking from Lady Kaitlyn to Teagan.

Arl Teagan's eyes flickered with a hint of unease. "Yes, they arrived last night. They should be joining us…" He shifted his gaze behind the King and smiled, "Ahh, here they are now."

Two elves walked into the room, but Alistair only had eyes for one of them.

Her grey tunic emblazoned with the emblem of a rearing griffon, Ferelden's Warden Commander kept her expression neutral as she walked up to him and held out her hand in greeting. He took it in his own larger hand more out of reflex than anything else. The Dalish Elf bowed her dark, braided head low over their joined hands, but when she lifted her face again, her pale green eyes held wary humor.

"I heard a rumor," Lyna began lightly, "that some royal dimwit who doubles as a hat rack has been looking for me…"

* * *

AUTHORS NOTES PART DEUX:

I've always been someone who's fascinated with names and their meanings. As some of you may know, Alistair's name is a variant of Alexander and translates into "Defender of Men". Mara, the name of the baby girl that he and Chana had, her name meant 'Bitter'. It didn't make sense for the baby name to be something happy and cheerful when her birth-and death-were anything but.

Anyway, I just wanted to note that the name Nathan literally translates into "He has given" but I confess I twisted the meaning a touch for the sake of the story, I hope you etymologists forgive me.


	6. Vexed to Nightmare

**_Chapter 5_**

"I heard a rumor," Lyna began lightly, "that some royal dimwit who doubles as a hat rack has been looking for me…"

Arl Teagan, Lady Kaitlyn and the elf with Lyna all gasped in unison at her unorthodox greeting. Alistair was grinning like a fool and knew it, but could no more stop than he could stop breathing. After weeks—months, even—of wanting to see her, of working out in his mind exactly what he would say the next time they met, now that she was in front of him he found himself wavering between being utterly tongue tied and a desire to grab her up in his arms and swing her around in the Remigold dance.

Gathering his wits enough to speak, he said with feigned confusion, "A royal dimwit, you say? Hmm, can you describe him? Perhaps we've met?"

She straightened, managing to look thoughtful despite the faint hint of a smile playing along the edge of her lips. "Well let's see. He's tall, about your height, actually. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Oh, and he's getting a bit thick around the waist from overindulging on fine cheese."

Alistair gave a wise nod at each adjective until she reached the last one. Wincing a little—he hadn't really put on that much weight, had he?—he shook his head with regret and said, "Oh dear. I thought I had an idea of who you might be referring to, until that last part about the cheese. Nope, sorry, afraid I don't know him."

"He also happens to have a death grip on my hand at the moment," Lyna whispered and tugged insistently on her hand to free it.

Flushing, he released her, feeling just as much of a bumbling idiot in her presence as he had so long ago when he'd mustered up the courage to give her a rose. "Oh, you mean _that_ royal dimwit. I thought he sounded familiar."

Teagan cleared his throat, wavering between laughter and a desperate struggle to maintain some level of propriety given the stature of their guests. "King Alistair, I see you remember Warden Commander Lyna. She and Senior Warden Fiona arrived last night," he gestured at the second elf.

The other Grey Warden was female and older, though it was nearly impossible for Alistair to guess her age. Elves may not have been as ageless as they had once been, but he knew they still aged slower than humans. She was also very short and slight, even for an elf. The polished white staff with a glowing silver ball clasped in the claw end identified her as a mage, despite the fact that she was wearing finely meshed chain hauberk and a red linen skirt.

She seem completely nonplussed by the familiarity of his exchange with Lyna, and judging from the set of her jaw and the glint in her expressive dark mahogany eyes, angry about something. That had to be a new record for him, making someone mad before he'd even met them in any official sense. Making sure that his tone held nothing but respect, he said, "You honor us with your presence."

Senior Warden Fiona's throat worked for a few moments before words actually came out. "The honor is mine, your Majesty," she finally said in a choked voice and bowed.

Alistair shot an inquisitive glance at Lyna but she seemed just as mystified by the other Warden's response as he was.

The awkward silence was broken by Bryce's plaintive request, "Cookies now? You said I could have a cookie!" The little boy frowned up at his parents from beneath a shaggy lock of red hair.

Lady Kaitlyn shook her head with a rueful smile, "I better get him to the kitchens, or we'll never hear the end of it. You must be thirsty after your journey—can I have one of the servants bring you something to eat or drink, your Majesty. Or perhaps you, Lyna or Fiona?"

"Cookies actually do sound good," Alistair said. "They have them in Orzammar, but I confess I wasn't brave enough to try one. I was afraid it'd be made either of some vile-tasting moss brew or nugs."

"Whatza nug?" Bryce asked and his father chuckled.

"A bit of a cross between a rat and a pig, when you get right down to it," Teagan explained, ruffling his son's hair. "Dwarves eat them quite a bit, from what I understand."

"We'll see if one of Eamon's books has a picture of one you can see," Kaitlyn said, taking her son by the hand before directing her attention toward Redcliffe's guests. "Supper should be ready shortly, if you wish to freshen up." Bryce yanked on her hand, trying to drag her off toward the kitchens and the woman laughed before accompanying him.

Fiona had used the child's distraction to compose herself, though she still seemed angry about something. Alistair saw she was looking at him from the corner of his eye, but when he glanced in her direction, her gaze slid away, as though she were reluctant to meet his eyes.

"Did—is Wynne not with you?" Lyna asked worriedly. It was common knowledge that the King never traveled anywhere without his grey-haired Court Mage. "She's all right, isn't she?"

Now that her absence had been pointed out, Teagan frowned. "I thought the messenger said she was with you when you rode into Redcliffe…"

"Oh she's here, just not, well, here. And healthy as a horse, though please don't tell her I said that, or she'll give me an earful. You should have heard her the time I made the mistake of referring to her as being as well aged as a fine cheese." Alistair grimaced at that memory. "She wanted to visit the general store in town for…" he caught himself right before he said Nathan's name, realizing that the more he said about the boy, the more he'd have to explain. "Uh… supplies. A few things we were running low on. She should be here shortly," he said with a cheerful smile, hoping his hesitation had gone unnoticed.

Unfortunately, two of the three people in the King's immediate presence knew him better than anyone else in all of Ferelden, and they both quirked their eyebrows at him with equal skepticism.

The newly appointed Arl was on the verge of saying something when one of his knights came into the hall and walked over to whisper something in his ear. Making a face, Teagan pulled at his beard before he nodded and said apologetically, "Excuse me for a moment, please," and followed the knight out the doorway leading to the courtyard.

Alistair turned to watch them go and as he did, Fiona bit off a sharp gasp of surprise. When he faced her again, she had a stricken expression on her face, and her wide-eyed gaze was focused on something at his shoulder. "What? Have I got a spider on me or something?" he asked nervously, brushing at his shoulder with a hand. The big ones were bad, but the little ones could squeeze between armor joinings.

"Your shield," the elf mage said in a broken tone, clenching her hand around her staff until the knuckles went white. Fiona's face was pale and she bit her lip for a moment before saying, "It just caught me off guard."

"This was Duncan's shield," the King said, studying her expression, "but, from the look of it I guess you knew that."

Lyna explained, "She mentioned that she knew Duncan, but I never thought to ask how well."

"He was like a brother to me," Fiona explained, drawing in a slow breath and releasing it. "I gave it to him, that shield. It was a bit of a…" Her voice trailed off and she shook her head with a sad smile, "He hardly ever used it—preferred his short sword and dagger. I guess I had thought it lost with him when he was killed."

Duncan may have been dead for five years, but Alistair felt his loss acutely, and looking at Lyna, knew she was feeling the pain as well, though she had only known him for a short time before his death. He still recalled the moment when she had given the shield to him after finding it in the Warden's Denerim warehouse with vivid detail and how much it'd meant to him to have something to remember the man who had been more of a father to him than anyone else, including Arl Eamon.

"I'll give it back to you then," he said and tried not to think of how odd he'd feel without the familiar weight on his back.

The mage jerked her head up and looked directly at him for the first time, eyes wide. "What? I—No. I am a mage, what use would I have for a shield? You keep it. It seems fitting that you, of all people, should have ended up with it." Fiona's lips tightened the moment the words left her mouth and she blinked before turning to walk out of the room with quick graceful strides, her staff clicking on the stone floor with each step.

More than a bit confused, Alistair watched her walk off and turned back toward Lyna. "Are all the Wardens in Weisshaupt like that, or is it just her?"

The Warden wrinkled her nose, "You remember the ones who came down from there in those first few months after the Blight ended? That's what most of the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt are like."

"How could I forget? It was like meeting a bunch of short versions of Sten." It was a slight exaggeration at best. He'd never met a more grim lot of people. One would think they'd be happier about the first Blight in four hundred years coming to an end so quickly. If anything, they had been angry about missing it. There was no telling what they would have done to Lyna and Alistair, king or not, had they known the truth surrounding the Archdemon's death.

"Well, in their defense, living in the Anderfels is rather like living in the Deep Roads," Lyna pointed out. "Darkspawn raid constantly, and have for hundreds of years. They fight the same never ending battle on the surface as the one the Legion of the Dead faces underground in Ferelden. But, to answer your question, no, Fiona isn't really like the rest of them. At least she hasn't been during the time we've been travelling together." A slight frown touched her lips, "She was fairly quiet actually for most of the journey. Asked a few questions about the Blight, Ferelden and Duncan. And you, of course," she added, as though that were a given.

He supposed that should not have come as a surprise, but in a way it did. "Me? What'd she want to know about me? And while we're on the topic of me, what'd she mean when she said it was fitting that I be the one who ended up with the shield?

Lyna shrugged, "I don't know, most of the Grey Wardens ask about you at some point or another. You are both a Grey Warden and a King, how could they not be curious? Perhaps Duncan mentioned you to her in a letter or something along those lines, so she knew he was particularly fond of you."

"That could be it," Alistair said thoughtfully. "Fiona. Now that I think about it, it does seem as though he may have mentioned her name before, but I can't quite remember." Shaking his head, he said, "It'll come to me, eventually. It's been a long time ago, after all."

Crossing her arms, she sighed, "Yes it has. It'll be six years since the Battle of Ostagar come autumn. It doesn't seem like a long time at all, and yet, it does."

"A lot happened during that time though," he reminded her. "You've fought darkspawn, saved Dalish elves from an old werewolf curse, cleansed the Circle of Mages from abominations, found the Urn of the Sacred Ashes, rebuilt the Ferelden order of Grey Wardens, put a king on the throne…"

"Two kings, actually," she pointed out with a crooked smile that didn't quite meet her eyes.

He grimaced and ducked his head, "I know, I was trying to forget about the second one."

Laughing, Lyna tilted her head to look up at him. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Old habits die hard." They stared at each other in silence for a long moment and Alistair felt that familiar tightness in his chest he always got around this particular woman, when he had so much he wanted to say and didn't know how to put it all into words that would make any sense and his head was on the verge of exploding with the sheer effort of keeping it all in. "Lyna…." he finally began, his tongue feeling as though it were wrapped in wool when he started to speak.

Interrupting him, she spoke in soft tones, "I'm very sorry about Chana, and the baby as well. I only heard just recently when I arrived back in Ferelden."

Her sympathy drew him up short. It was bad enough hearing it from everyone else, but from her, of all people, it was ten times worse. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her as she continued.

"I know the words are meaningless in light of your loss, but I just wanted to let you know, you have my deepest sympathies."

_The words couldn't be any more meaningless than the marriage was_, Alistair thought with bitter humor. She was waiting for him to say something though, and he shifted from one foot to the other before saying awkwardly, "Thank you." He wanted to say more, but Lady Kaitlyn chose that moment to walk back into the main hall, bearing a platter with some goblets and a small tray with cookies and cheese on it. "Maybe we can talk later?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

The dark-haired elf gave him a brief nod. "Of course, your Majesty." His disappointment in her formal response must have shown on his face, because she hesitated for a long moment and said, "Perhaps we'll speak further after supper, Alistair."

It would have to do for now.

* * *

Wynne and Nathan still had not arrived when Teagan led Bayard into the large room. After giving the Arl, Kaitlyn and Lyna a formal introduction to the black-haired mage, the King excused himself to his rooms for a brief time to change out of his dusty travel gear and armor, and into something more suited to wearing at the dinner table.

He made his way back downstairs, shadowed inobtrusively by two of his guards as always. Captain Lyndon intercepted him near the foot of the stairs to give him a brief update on Seamus' condition and to inform him that he and the guards had been settled into the Arl's barracks for the duration of their stay in Redcliffe. The servants had already set the long heavy tables that they would be eating at when he reached the dining hall, but it wasn't quite time for dinner yet.

Teagan and Lyna were seated at a table and deep in conversation—or more like negotiations from the sound of it—when Alistair returned to the main hall. Bryce had a pile of wooden blocks in various sizes and shapes spread out on the floor and was stacking them. Both the Arl and Warden stood at the King's entry, and he waved his hand, encouraging them to reclaim their chairs. "Please, I should hope we're past all that formal business by now, aren't we? I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Even if you are, it's just as well, since the Warden Commander seems determined to recruit two of my best men into the Grey Wardens," Teagan accused with good natured humor as they sat down again. "With any luck, your timely arrival will deter her from trying to wheedle a few more away from Redcliffe."

The warden's eyebrows shot upward into her bangs, "Two of your best men? When I first asked you what you thought of Kendrin, you said when he came here you weren't sure if he knew which end of the sword to hold."

Alistair pulled up a chair as well, keeping one ear on the conversation while watching as the red-haired boy stacked the blocks up on top of each other, forming a precarious and swaying tower that eventually toppled over with a loud clatter, scattering the wooden pieces everywhere. One hit him in the boot and he leaned down to pick it up, offering it to Bryce with a warm smile.

The Arl coughed behind his hand and shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, perhaps I did say that, but he's made a great deal of progress in his training since then. Jameson really is one of my better men, I'm actually surprised you haven't noticed him before now."

"I am too, actually," Lyna admitted, lifting a slender hand to rub her pointed ear tip. "Still, if they accept, I do think they have the best potential among of those I've seen here at Redcliffe."

Sighing, Teagan nodded his agreement. "If they say yes to your offer, then I have no argument."

Bryce grinned and took the block in his small hand, gesturing at his fallen masterpiece. "I was makin' a castle."

"A castle?" Alistair echoed, trying to look both surprised and impressed. "I thought for sure it looked like Fort Drakon, actually. Have you seen it?" Belatedly he wished he'd thought to tell Wynne to pick up some toys to help keep Nathan occupied while she was out shopping.

Giving an eager nod, the boy said, "Fort Dwagon! I wanna make that next!" He sat down cross-legged on the floor and began to stack the blocks again, building toward another wooden tower.

Teagan chuckled at the boy's enthusiasm and said, "He's been to our estate in Denerim a couple of times. This summer will be his first Landsmeet. Not that he'll get much out of the nobles wrangling and arguing, but still… who knows, he may meet his future wife there."

Shaking his head, Alistair made a face, "I hate Landsmeets. I didn't like them when I was a boy, and I loathe them even more now."

Lyna frowned, disapproval written all over her face. "You'd seek to arrange a marriage of convenience for him? At the age of three?"

"What? Maker's breath, no," Teagan assured her. "I would never agree to an arranged marriage, regardless of his age. I mean, seriously, if my own had been arranged, I'd have never had the opportunity to meet Kaitlyn. I simply meant that he may encounter a girl who catches his eye later when he's of an age. But that could happen anywhere, not just at a Landsmeet."

"Your Majesty, my Lord, if I may, please," one of Teagan's knights interposed himself with deferential respect, "Court Mage Wynne and her ward have arrived from Redcliffe."

"It's about time, I was about to send out a search party," Alistair said, getting to his feet along with the others as Wynne entered the hall, holding Nathan's hand. The shopping trip appeared to have been a success, from the look of it. The boy was dressed much as any other boy his age, a plain cream colored shirt, dark vest, and heavy brown trousers. He wore soft boots instead of more traditional buckled shoes.

Captain Lyndon was right behind her, and had a burlap sack hefted over one of his shoulder. He murmured, "I'll take these to your rooms."

Wynne gave him a grateful smile before turning her attention on those in the room. "Arl Teagan, it's a joy to see you again! And…" Her blue eyes widened as she recognized the elf with them. "By the Maker, Lyna, is that you?" she gasped, raising her hand to her chest with shock.

"It is," Lyna grinned with genuine pleasure, and even though it was utterly childish, Alistair could not help the jealous surge that welled up in him when the two women embraced warmly, laughing and patting each other on the back. "It's so good to see you again, Wynne," she said, straightening again and brushing one of her braids back behind an ear.

"Wynne, welcome to Redcliffe Castle. It's a pleasure to have you here as always," Teagan said, giving the mage a bow and a smile.

The new arrivals were more than enough to distract Bryce from his tower building, and he made his way to stand beside his father and stared at Nathan, who was looking back at him with equal curiosity. "I made Fort Dwagon," he announced with no small amount of pride. "Wanna see?"

Nathan seemed taken aback by the sudden request at first. When he looked up at Alistair for permission though, there was such a wordless longing in his eyes that the King could not help wondering if this weren't the first time the poor boy had ever been asked to play. The sad truth is, it likely was.

"Why don't you go check it out? Bryce has been working very hard on it and maybe you can build something too," Alistair said, pretending he didn't see the warning look Wynne was giving him. What was he supposed to do, ignore the boy? Nathan nodded, his eyes shining with eagerness as he followed Bryce back over to the blocks and knelt down to watch as the younger boy showed off his creation.

Lyna had her head cocked with confusion as she looked from Nathan to Alistair to Wynne. "He is your ward?" she asked curiously.

"Yes, for lack of a better term," the grey-haired mage said with a brief nod. "As you can see, he's become quite attached to Alistair, despite my best efforts." Wynne gave him a quelling look.

He resisted the urge to stick out his tongue and said, "I know, I'm such a bad influence."

Teagan was stroking his fingers along his beard in thought as he watched the two children begin to add to the tower of blocks. "I can't quite put my finger on it but he seems familiar to me for some reason."

"You've seen him before?" Alistair asked, his tone more curt than hopeful.

"No, I'm fairly certain I've never seen him before," the Arl responded, squaring his shoulders a bit as he looked at his king. "But at the same time…" his voice trailed off and he studied Nathan's face again before shaking his head. "Perhaps he just has one of those faces that seems to remind me of someone else," Teagan said, sounding a bit dubious.

"So you don't know who his parents are?" Lyna realized, glancing between Wynne and Alistair.

The King's jaw tightened and he ground out, "If I knew who they were, they'd be having an extended stay in the deepest, darkest dungeon in Fort Drakon I could find."

"Alistair," Wynne said sharply.

He said nothing and avoided meeting the disconcerted gazes of both Teagan and Lyna. The intensity of his reaction had caught both of them off guard, but he wasn't going to apologize for it, not when he meant every word he had said.

Oblivious to the seriousness of the adults' conversation, the two boys continued to add to the tower. The utter disappointment on Nathan's face when Bryce added a block off balanced enough that the top half of the 'tower' crumbled down was priceless. It faded into giggles as Teagan's boy pushed another section down with his fingers, causing the blocks to clatter to the floor, and then another, until together the entire tower collapsed into ruins. And then they gathered the blocks up and began to build another.

Wynne shifted her staff from one hand to the other, explaining in a low undertone, "The boy—Nathan—appears to have been used as the focal point for some kind of magic ritual, one I've neither seen nor heard of."

Lyna bit off a sharp gasp of surprise, her head jerking as she looked between the grim-faced King and his court mage. "What kind of magic ritual? You mean blood magic, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question.

Swallowing hard, Teagan looked back at the dark haired boy playing with his son. "How can that be? He's hardly older than Bryce." He, as much as any of them, knew first hand the potential dangers of magic, having been a victim of it during his nephew Connor's demon possession years earlier.

"We aren't exactly sure, to be honest," Wynne admitted. "We just know there's a distinct pattern of abuse…"

"More like a distinct pattern of torture," Alistair growled, running his fingers through his hair in a quick angry gesture.

The mage sighed, unable to refute that point, and went on. "Anyway, it seems as though it's been going on for a long time. Quite possibly it started within days of his birth. The scarring is," she paused, searching for an appropriately descriptive word and ended up just lifting one thin shoulder in a shrug, "most grievous."

"His clothing hides the markings?" the elf asked quietly, studying the child for signs of his injuries.

The King said, "Nearly all of them are on his legs, between his knees and his waist. The most recent ones are still healing, and are on his shoulders."

Lyna nodded, her pale green eyes sympathetic and her lips quirking into a slight smile. "I guess it's just as well he's in the care of the best healer in all of Ferelden, isn't it?" she pointed out and inclined her head at Wynne.

"Mmm," the mage said noncommittally, keeping her attention focused on Nathan.

"My, you four are a gloomy lot," Lady Kaitlyn commented as she walked up. "Is everything ok?"

"Everything's fine, dear," Teagan said, slipping his arm around his wife's slender waist and giving her a hug. "I hope you're here to tell us supper is nearly on, why do you think we're all down in the chops?" he asked with a grin, though his eyes were still troubled.

From the look of it, Kaitlyn wasn't falling for his feigned good mood but was too gracious a host to question him further about their subject of conversation, at least in public. In private though, it was another matter. She gave the grey-haired mage a warm smile, "Wynne, it's such a delight to see you again. I hope you're doing well?"

Wynne nodded, "As well as can be expected with our good King dragging me all over Ferelden."

Affronted, Alistair said, "What? I asked if you wanted to stay at the Palace this time and you said—no, you _demanded—_to come along to keep me out of trouble."

Drolly, Lyna said, "No doubt that's been working about as well as usual."

"Maker's breath, I gave up on that years ago," Teagan grinned. "Talk about a waste of time…"

"I have hope for him yet," Wynne said with utmost patience.

"Er… Hello? I'm standing right here, you know," Alistair huffed and turned to slip his arm inside Lady Kaitlyn's elbow. "My Lady, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the dining hall, we'll leave this sorry lot behind so they can talk about me where they don't have to worry about my listening in."

"Well what would be the fun of that?" Lyna quipped.

Kaitlyn lifted her hand up to stifle a giggle before nodding. "Of course, your Majesty. Right this way. Bryce," she called to her son, "put your blocks away, it's time for supper. And who's this?" she asked with surprise, looking at Nathan as the two boys stood up in unison.

"That's Wynne's ward, Nathan," the Arl told her. "I'm sorry, love, I should have told you we'd have one more at the table. Still, he's just a little fellow so the table won't need too much adjusting. Perhaps he could sit beside Bryce?" Teagan glanced at Wynne to see how she'd receive that suggestion.

"I'm sure he would probably enjoy sitting beside his new friend very much," she said with a warm smile for the two boys.

Nathan nodded, grinning so broadly that it made Alistair's face ache just to see it.

* * *

Both Fiona and Bayard were waiting in the dining hall when the others entered. The Grey Warden mage's eyebrows rose when Nathan was once again introduced as Wynne's ward, but she didn't ask any questions. Alistair suspected those would come later, when she and Lyna were alone.

Following tradition, the tables and settings were arranged so that, as king, Alistair sat in the place of honor at the head of the table. Arl Teagan and his family sat to his right, and Lyna, Fiona, Wynne and Bayard to his left. The knights and guards settings stretched down the wings of the long tables, from the highest ranking to lowest, the King's royal guards tucked in between the two.

Supper was delicious and thankfully, uneventful. The conversation remained light and causal throughout most of the meal. Lyna did most of the talking, as many were curious about the details of her trip to Weisshaupt Fortress. She answered their questions without giving any more information than she had to, carefully steering conversations away from the Orlesians, who, despite the fact that 35 years had passed since their rule of Ferelden, were still regarded with a great deal of suspicion.

Nathan seemed to be having the time of his life. Kaitlyn tended to both of the boys, making sure they got enough vegetables, insisting that they try at least one bite of everything put on their plate. The boy couldn't seem to decide which was more preferable, imitating Bryce in being reluctant to try something new, or being praised by his mother for being brave enough to do so.

Fiona said hardly a word during the entire meal. On more than one occasion, Alistair caught her staring at him, an unreadable expression on her elvish face, but whenever he did, she either nodded with formal respect or averted her eyes away or down at her plate. When the desert plates were being carried away by the servants, she was one of the first to leave the table, though she did excuse herself with exquisite propriety first.

After dinner, Teagan and Alistair retired to the Arl's study to discuss the upcoming Landsmeet and a few issues that had come up. The King's decision to allow the City Elves a place on the Royal Council was still a sticking point for many of the nobles, for example. The death of the Queen and lack of an heir for the throne would no doubt be another, one that he was firmly unwilling to discuss at this time, and quite possibly ever.

Of more concern were the rumors he had heard while in Orzammar, that the noble and warrior castes were so upset with King Bhelen for allowing the casteless to regain both honor and privilege by helping the Legion of the Dead slaughter darkspawn they had begun to resort to assassination attempts to remove him from power. The Dwarven King had been heavy into his cups when he'd thrown out the offhanded suggestion about disbanding the Assembly completely, but Alistair had a sinking suspicion that he really might follow through with it. Orzammar was enjoying a level of surface trade and prosperity unequalled in its long history but was turning the Thaig into a dictatorship worth it? He wasn't sure, and hoped not to find out.

Their 'shop talk' came to an end when Kaitlyn brought a very sleepy Bryce into the study to say night-night to his father. The tender affection Teagan showed when he kissed and hugged both his wife and son was almost painful for him to watch, and Alistair said his own goodnights to the family before slipping out of the room.

Tamara, the only woman assigned to the royal guard, was waiting outside the room with Welborne when he emerged. The dark skinned woman lowered her head, lifting a scarred hand to her chest as she spoke, "Court Mage Wynne respectfully requested your presence in her chambers when you were done, your Majesty."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Did she really request to see me respectfully?" he asked, putting an emphasis on the last word.

Welborne cleared his throat and the crow's feet at the edges of Tamara's deep brown eyes lengthened. She bowed her head, a dry, crooked smile touching her lips as she responded, "Not really, no. Shall I tell her you are indisposed, Sire?"

"Of course not, or I'd never hear the end of it." He made his way to Wynne's rooms, the guards trailing a short distance behind. The castle was quiet as the evening wound down. When he reached the door to her room, he'd barely lifted his hand to knock before she yanked the door open.

"It's about time," she said with exasperation, moving aside as she beckoned him into the room and then closed the door behind him, leaving his guards stationed outside.

Confused, he asked, "Am I missing something?"

Wynne gestured toward her large bed, where Nathan was sitting up in a sleeping gown on one side. "He won't go to sleep. In fact, he keeps trying to get up and leave the room," she adds, giving the little boy a stern frown.

"That's not good, we can't have him wandering the castle halls," Alistair said, grimacing, and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Not sleepy, are you?" he wondered with a smile, reaching out to tousle the boy's dark hair. "After such a big day and spending so much time playing with your new friend? I'm surprised you haven't keeled over already, poor Bryce could barely keep his eyes open long enough to give his parents a goodnight hug."

Nathan shrugged and then yawned so wide that his eyes began to water and he had to wipe the moisture away with the back of his hand.

"He is tired," Wynne grumped. "He just refuses to lie down and sleep."

"Lie down, now," Alistair ordered and after a slight hesitation, the boy sighed and lay back until his head rested against the pillow. Tucking the covers around his small chest, he asked, "Don't you want to go to sleep?"

Shaking his head stubbornly, Nathan patted the bed and then pointed at the blonde man's chest.

It took a few moments for him to decipher the wordless message the child was trying to convey, but he thought he understood. "Aha, I think I see now. You want to sleep in my room? Is that why you kept trying to leave?"

The boy nodded, his eyes hopeful.

"I figured as much," the mage said without surprise. "He can't, of course. You know this."

Sighing, he nodded. "I know, I know. Yet another reason that it stinks to be the King," he muttered under his breath and addressed Nathan. "I'm sorry, but while we're here at the castle, you need to sleep in Wynne's room. You don't really want to sleep with me anyway, I snore and drool."

Nathan stuck out his lower lip in a very distinct pout, his brows drawing together sulkily.

Alistair's will wavered at the boy's expression, but really the situation was untenable. There was no way he could sleep in the same room as the King, Wynne's ward or no, without drawing unwanted attention. "Look, I know it's hard to explain but, it's complicated. It just wouldn't be proper," he tried to explain, and then decided to try a different route. "Besides, I didn't want to be the one to have to mention this, but Wynne is really afraid of the dark. Terrified, actually."

That earned him a look of pure skepticism and Nathan peered up at the mage with suspicion.

"It's true, I do get a little nervous at night, a holdover from, well, darker times than these," Wynne confessed with a small smile.

It was probably even true, Maker knew that there were nights that Alistair found himself jumping at shadows. Especially with the dark dreams of darkspawn the taint still brought him, Blight or no. "There, you see? It'd really mean a lot to me if you could stay in here with her and look after her while she sleeps. Could you do that?" he asked in a serious tone, as though charging the boy with a very important task.

Worrying his lip for a moment, the little boy sighed with resignation and nodded.

"Good lad," he smiled. "Good night, then."

Nathan sat up again, lifting his arms up to give Alistair a hug that he gently returned. "Night-night," the boy murmured in his piping young voice before releasing him.

Standing, he moved out of the way as the child gave the mage a hug as well and then settled back on the bed, rolling over to his side. Wynne pulled the covers up over his shoulder to tuck him in and then rose to her feet, walking with Alistair toward the door. "Hopefully that will keep him from roaming the halls at night," she said quietly, looking up at him.

"I think it will," he responded. "How do you think it went today?"

Her brows drew together in thought and she said, "Better than I had anticipated, but I feel as though a great many questions went unasked—or unanswered."

"That's probably for the best, because I don't know about you, but I don't feel like we have a lot of answers yet, and they may be some time in coming," Alistair spoke in a low voice.

Wynne pursed her lips. "Have you considered that when the answers do come, we may be wishing we remained ignorant? 'With much wisdom comes much sorrow—the more knowledge, the more grief,'" she quoted.

It was a brief phrase that held a lot of truth in the simply spoken words. "That's not from the Chant, is it? If it is, I don't recall ever hearing it before."

"No, it's not from the Chant. It's just a proverb I heard once that stayed with me. One I find usually ends up being true in the long run, unfortunately." She shook her head and peered up at him with a weary smile. "I think it's time for this old woman to get some rest."

"Good night, Wynne," Alistair said, opening the door and slowly closing it behind him. Tamara and Welborne were still stationed outside in the hall. He paused in thought for a moment and looked between the two guards before saying with quiet authority, "Tell Captain Lyndon that I want a guard assigned to Wynne and the boy at all times, from here on out. Discreetly as possible."

Both guards' eyes widened with surprise at the order and they looked at each other before looking back at him. "I will tell him at once, Majesty," Welborne said, bowing before he turned on his boot heel and walked off to find the guard captain.

He glanced down the hall to where the door to his own chambers was. There'd be two guards posted there all night, within sight of the door to the Court Mage's rooms, so there'd be no need to add a third guard to the rotation.

"Expecting trouble, here at Redcliffe of all places, Sire?" Tamara asked, her fingers trailing over the hilt of her sword.

Alistair shook his head, "Maker preserve us, I hope not. I just got this feeling, like… I don't know." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Maybe it's my Grey Warden senses warning me of danger, or something. It's been a while since that's happened."

The guardswoman accepted his explanation without question, though after a slight hesitation she spoke again, "What would you have us tell Wynne when she asks?"

And she would ask, there was no doubt about that. She had been Court Mage for five years, and never once had she had a guard appointed to her in the past. Alistair's voice hardened, "Tell her the order comes directly from the King. If she has complaints, refer her to me."

"Yes, your Majesty," Tamara said, pressing her scarred fist to her chest again and bowing.

They waited in silence until Welborne returned with Lyndon himself. To his credit, the Guard Captain gave his King a nod and did not ask any questions. He immediately took up post in the hallway, positioning himself along the wall rather between the doors to Alistair and Wynne's rooms.

Despite the long day, Alistair was still too restless to turn in. He wandered down the castle halls until he reached the library. The familiarity of it drew him in and he paused long enough to tell his guards that he didn't want to be disturbed before entering. He ambled along the rows of books, tilting his head and squinting a bit to read some of the titles in the dimly lit room. It was odd how all libraries seemed to have that same distinct aroma, of ink and parchment and paper. Rather like stables in that regard, though the smells there lingered a bit more.

The quiet murmur of voices from outside caught his attention. Walking around the edge of the stacks, he saw that Welborne and Tamara were standing in the doorway, blocking Lyna from entering. He'd almost forgotten their brief discussion from earlier, when she'd agreed that they would talk later. "Let her pass," he told them. The guards nodded in unison and moved aside enough to let the irritated warden inside the room.

"I'm sorry about that, Lyna. I had told them I didn't want to be disturbed," Alistair admitted.

Tossing her head, the elf sniffed. "So they told me." Her pale green eyes flickered with uncertainty, "If this is a bad time, we can talk another time…"

"No!" He said it so quickly the word was out before she'd even finished speaking. Feeling heat rising in his cheeks, he spoke in a more normal tone, "Now is a good time to talk."

Lyna's lips twitched as though she was trying not to smile and she inclined her head. "Very well, your Majesty. What shall we talk about then?"

Scowling at the honorific, he said, "For starters, how about you call me by my name, instead of my title." Alistair paused, adding in an almost pleading tone, "Please."

Her eyes softened and she gave a brief nod of agreement. "Very well, Alistair."

The lilting roll of his name off her tongue made his heart skip—Maker he'd missed her so—and he was back to feeling like an awkward Chantry boy again. His face felt flushed again and he looked away from her, hoping the low light hid it. Two high-backed lounge chairs were set up in front of the fireplace for reading and he gestured at them with one hand. "Come sit?" he offered and led them over to sit in front of the fireplace, where the logs had burned down to cracked, smoldering coals.

The elf sat down with easy grace, resting her hands on the chair arms. Her fingertips lightly drummed their surface as they sat together in awkward silence.

After a short time, his typical anxiety in her presence, combined with a deep rooted psychological need to fill the empty silence with something—anything—could no longer be ignored. "So how have you been?" Alistair asked, trying to sound casual. "You look well." The words had no sooner left his mouth than he felt like an idiot for saying anything at all.

Lyna blinked at him and then started to laugh helplessly, shaking her head. "I 'look well'?" she echoed his words in between soft giggles. "Oh Alistair… It's been how long since we last spoke one on one, without audiences or expectations, and that's the best you can manage? 'You look well'? Well thank you very much. You look well yourself," she said with dry humor.

Mortified, he lifted his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry but, as usually happens around you, my head sort of exploded and that was the best I could come up with on such short notice," he said, starting to chuckle as well. Watching the play of firelight on her delicate features, he tried to collect his wits enough to speak more coherently. "I've missed you," he blurted out.

The smile faded from her lips and she didn't say anything, so he blundered on, confessing, "I just wanted you to know that I've missed you, Lyna. I've missed you so much more than I can say." He closed his eyes and shook his head, unwilling to look at her, not sure he wanted to see her expression at his confession. Inhaling, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and then ran his fingers through his hair in a quick, agitated gesture and opened his eyes to look at her directly. "I've never regretted anything more in my life than what I did, what I said to you that day, when I told you that my duty to Ferelden came first. That it came before you. I am so, so sorry."

A muscle in her jaw twitched and she sat in the chair, her back stiff and fingers clenched tight around the arms. Averting her gaze, she stared at the fire.

Alistair sighed, clearing his throat and bowing his head. "So. There it is. What I wanted to talk to you about, though I guess I've done most of the talking, haven't I? Nothing unusual there I suppose," he said without humor, feeling equal amounts of misery, shame, and yes, relief, that he'd finally mustered up enough courage to say what he'd wanted—_what he'd needed_—to say for nearly five years.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment and then she spoke, in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "You lied to me."

He wasn't sure if he'd heard her right and blinked at her. "Pardon?"

"I said, you lied to me," Lyna repeated in a louder voice, her eyes darting at him and sliding away. "You told me once that you'd never hurt me. You lied."

Giving her a slow nod, he acknowledged the truth in her words. "I did. I did lie to you when I said that. Of course, I didn't know then that I'd be…well, it doesn't really matter, does it?" Alistair realized and sighed. "Either way, the end result is the same. I hurt you when I said I wouldn't. So I lied."

Plucking at the cushioned padding over the arm chair with her fingertips, Lyna closed her eyes and opened them again, leaning against the back of the chair. "You were right though." She bit her lip, digging her blunt fingernails into the fabric before speaking again, "It took me a while to see it and admit it to myself—travelling helped, when I went to Orlais and the Free Marches—even to Weisshaupt Fortress. Alistair, you have no idea how much they respect you and they've never even met you. You are Maric Therrin's son, a descendent of Calenhad the Silver Knight himself, and a Grey Warden to boot. You helped defeat the Archdemon in the first Blight to come to Thedas in more than four centuries, though I think the fact that you defeated the Hero of the River Dane in a duel to the death did more to impress them…" Her lips twisted into a sad smile at the irony of that.

He blinked at her without comprehension. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you were right, that you did have a duty to Ferelden in regards to producing an heir—or at least to try." Drawing in a ragged breath, she said, "The Therrin bloodline has continued for 400 years. It would have been wrong to let it end, especially only thirty years after Maric wrested the crown away from the Orlesians."

Alistair was struck dumb. It took a few minutes for him to work up the ability to speak, and even then he couldn't suppress the bitterness in his tone, "For all the good it did. It seems the Therrin bloodline is going to end with me, one way or the other."

She drew her arms in close against her body as though she were chilled and pointed out, "You could marry again."

"No," he grated. Lyna looked at him, startled by his fierce response, and his face was stony when he went on, "I will not enter into another marriage of convenience to a woman I do not love, not even for the sake of duty. I won't do it." Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out and added brokenly, "I can't do it."

Silence again fell upon the room and without warning, she gave a sharp bark of laughter. "We're sorry pair, aren't we? Both of us were devoted enough to our duties to Ferelden that we allowed ourselves to be pulled apart, but neither one so devoted to it that we'd risk letting the other die by killing the Archdemon."

He reddened and looked away, "I couldn't bear it, knowing there was something I could have done that would have kept you from dying. Better to live apart from you than to lose you completely."

Lyna sighed with resignation and nodded. "My sentiments exactly, wrong as they may be. Thus, my comment about us being a sorry pair." She wrinkled her nose and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and knitting her fingers together. "Have you tried to find her?"

There was no doubt in his mind exactly who she was referring too. Stiffening, Alistair glanced over his shoulder reflexively and then edged his seat a little closer. "Quite honestly, I've tried not to even think about her. However, I'd be lying if I said that she hasn't crossed my mind, especially in recent months," he grimaced.

Pursing her lips, she admitted, "I've tried to locate her. Unsuccessfully, of course. She pretty much vanished after the battle, though I did hear rumors of someone matching her description travelling through the Frostback Mountains a few months later. Nothing since then, though."

"I don't know that I want to find her," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "Andraste's flaming sword, it's bad enough knowing I helped bring one monster into the world, I'm not sure I could handle another."

Lyna started at his words, taking in the helpless misery on his face and understanding dawned. "Oh Alistair…." she said sadly, blinking away tears as she reached out to take his hand in her own and giving it a squeeze.

He clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man hanging onto a life line and Maker, his chest ached so badly it hurt to breathe.

They sat there for a few minutes, their hands clasped together and it was such a small, simple thing really but somehow after five years of being apart, it was _enough._

"I think we should try. To find her." She sighed, looking at him. "We need to know what happened with her, and with the baby too—assuming she had one."

"Assuming it's a baby at all," Alistair reminded her.

Lyna shook her head, a tiny smile appearing on her face. "That's not the usual optimistic Alistair I remember from my wayward youth, the one who talked me into adding 'ohh pretty colors' instead of 'muahuahua, princess stabbity' to our travelling party."

A brief chuckle escaped him, "Well, my luck's taken a sharp turn for the worse since the good ol' days. Besides, five years is a long time. How do we even know where to start looking? I mean, even if she did go to the Frostback Mountains, there's nothing that says she stayed there. She could be all the way in Val Royeaux for all we know. Five years is more than enough time for someone to get lost—especially when they don't want to be found," he added under his breath.

"We won't find anything if we don't look, will we?" she pointed out, giving his hand another squeeze before she gently disentangled it and got to her feet.

Alistair stood up as well, looking down at her, and suddenly that awkwardness was back in full force. "Thank you, Lyna. It was good to talk to you. And by good, I mean, well, you know, nice. Pleasant, even. Is awesome a bit of an overstatement?" he asked her with a crooked grin and shrugged.

Tilting her head, she smiled and gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. "Ever the wordsmith. Goodnight, Alistair."

Almost reluctantly, he fell asleep. After the previous night of nonstop dream memories, he wanted nothing more than a restful night's worth of sleep, one where he closed his eyes and didn't wake up until dawn with no recollection of the passage of time at all. Of course, wanting and getting are two entirely different things, but even so, he slept throughout most of the night.

When he did dream, it was just that, a dream and not a memory.

He knew it was a dream because in it, he wasn't the King but a Grey Warden, living at the Warden Keep in Amaranthine. Every night after training and travelling, he went home to his Warden-Commander wife Lyna and his son Nathan. Of course, they were blissfully happy and there were many hugs and kisses to be had and given, and more than anything else there was a sense of love and belonging in their modest household.

They were eating supper, everyone's favorite and his specialty, traditional lamb and pea stew. Lyna had just ladled out seconds for Nathan when there was a knock on the door.

Alistair swallowed down a mouthful of stew and gave his wife an inquisitive look. "Were you expecting company?"

She shook her head, "Not that I recall. Perhaps something has come up at the Keep that they need our help with?"

The knocking started again, more insistently this time, and Alistair pushed back from the table and got to his feet. "Just a minute!" he called, making his way over to the door to pull it open.

There was a cloaked, hunched figure waiting there on the door stop, raising her hand to knock a third time.

"May I help you?" Alistair asked, more than a little confused.

The hand shifted to the cloak's hood, tugging it back with a quick jerk and Flemeth grinned at him, her eyes blazing with equal amounts of power and madness. "Why, yes, your Majesty, actually you can help me. You have something that belongs to me…" she declared, greed and craving etched into every wrinkle of her ancient face as she reached out with her clawed hand and it grew exponentially in size, becoming way more claw than hand. Where an old woman had stood now there was a high dragon, hulking and fanged and brushing Alistair aside as she rammed her massive forepaw into the doorway, reaching for Nathan.

His sword and shield were in his hands before Alistair even knew how they got there and he hacked Starfang at Flemeth's forearm, shouting defiantly, "I killed you once, Witch, I can do it again."

The dragon lifted her head and laughed uproariously, her terrible voice blasting through his ears and head so loud he thought he'd go mad from the pain of it. "**I HAVE ENDURED FOR 600 YEARS, YOU INSIGNIFICANT GNAT, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOUR PUNY WEAPONS WILL HAVE ANY EFFECT ON ME IN THIS PLACE?**"

An arrow whizzed past Alistair and bounced off Flemeth's scaled hide, followed by another, and another. The last arrow shattered on impact. Despite the fact that they seemed to be having no effect, Lyna still guarded Nathan as best she could, her bow drawn and another arrow notched and at the ready. He huddled under the table, wide-eyed and his small face white with fear as he looked at his father.

"**YOU WASTE MY TIME, KINGLING**," the dragon roared, each word pounding in his head like a hammer strike as she yanked her huge paw out of the door.

Alistair slammed the door shut behind her, staggering a bit as he made his way over to stand back to back with Lyna, preparing for another attack.

The great dragon ripped the roof clear off the house and slammed her forepaw down, trying to crush them both. They were barely able to leap out of the way in time, and Alistair rolled to his feet just as Flemeth lifted the table off of Nathan, exposing him to her view.

Quick as a snake's strike, she grabbed the boy's small form up in her claws, lifting him toward her spined snout. "**I HAVE WAITED FOR THIS MOMENT FOR FIVE CENTURIES AND THROUGH TWO BLIGHTS, AND FINALLY, YOU ARE MINE, URTHEMIEL**," she cackled with glee and her jaw dropped open to reveal jagged rows of teeth. The child writhed in her grip, his mouth open in a soundless shriek of terror.

"No!" Alistair bellowed and launched himself at Flemeth, slamming his sword against her chest with a fury borne of desperation, while Lyna cursed in elvish and fired arrow after arrow straight into the dragon's gaping maw.

"**FOOLS**," she gloated in triumph, turning her mad gaze upon them, "**YOU SIMPLY DELAY THE INEVITABLE.**" With one sweep of her massive paw, she knocked them both aside with no more effort than a person would brush away particularly irritating insects. Alistair slammed into the wall with bone breaking force, sobbing with agony and scrabbling to reach his sword as the dragon swallowed his son whole.


	7. Some Revelation Is At Hand

**_CHAPTER 6_**

Flemeth faded, and when she did, so did Alistair's chances of recovering his son. He redoubled his efforts, swinging his sword again and this time, he landed a solid hit.

"Ow!"

"For the love of… I told you to watch his arms! Your Majesty, wake up!"

"Well I didn't take his bleedin' son! Andraste's flaming knickers, it hurts. I think he broke it!"

"Quit your sniveling and move back, you're dripping blood everywhere."

"What's he goin' on about a son for anyway, wasn't the baby a girl?"

"Quiet! He's starting to come around—and for Andraste's sake, Terrance, put your sword away. Your Majesty? Sire?"

Alistair could dimly hear someone calling at him as though from a long way away. He had a pounding headache and Flemeth's thunderous dragon voice still rang in his ears, all but drowning out the worried voice of his guard. Unlike the previous morning when he had jerked awake so fast he found himself disoriented, this time he fought to regain consciousness.

Powell's familiar voice muttered, "Thank the Maker, I think he's waking up finally. King Alistair? Are you all right?" A hand gripped his shoulder and then gave it a wary shake. "Sire? You need to wake up."

Through strength of will, he forced himself to open his eyes and winced in pain at the dim light coming from the lamp. "What is it?" he rasped, and Maker's breath his throat hurt. In fact, his entire body ached, as though he were still feeling the lingering effects of the injuries suffered in his dream, but that was impossible. Blinking his lids to clear away sleep, he focused on the guard standing over him through bleary eyes. "What's wrong?" Alistair asked groggily, levering himself up to one elbow and groaned at the spear of pain stabbed through his muscles.

The balding guard shook his head, answering, "Sire nothing's wrong, it's just…" he hesitated and said, "you were shouting, it sounded like you were under attack."

"I was shouting?" he repeated. Well that explained why his throat felt like it was on fire.

"Loud enough that I'm surprised if you haven't woke up whole bloody castle," Terrance muttered in a nasal tone. The young, sandy haired guard had a bloody rag held up to his nose. When Powell shot him a quelling look, he ducked his head and added with more respect, "Beggin' your Majesty's pardon."

Alistair blinked at the guard, "What happened to your nose?"

Powell cleared his throat and rubbed his bald pate. "We had a really had time waking you up. Terrance got a bit too close when you were thrashing about."

It took a minute for that to sink in. "Wait, I hit you?" Alistair said with disbelief, and reddened when the young guard nodded. "I'm so sorry, I must have been out of my mind."

"That's the Maker's own truth," Terrance immediately agreed, and then backed up a step at the other guard's glare.

"It seemed to be quite a bad nightmare," Powell said, worry fading from his face now that his King seemed to have his senses back.

Alistair dropped back onto the pillow, rubbing his eyes with one shaking hand. Even dream memories from the previous night seemed almost dull in comparison to how vivid this nightmare had been. His hand ached from where he'd gripped Starfang in his fist and beat it like a club into Flemeth's dragon skin, and every muscle in his body ached from where she'd knocked him aside and thrown him against the wall. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his bare chest, halfway expecting to see the dark purple smear of a massive bruise there, but his skin was unblemished outside of the occasional mole, of course. "It was so real—like she was right here…" he mumbled.

Terrance lowered the rag and peered at it, trying to see how bad his nose was still bleeding. A dark trail began to stain his upper lip, and he wiped it up, asking, "Who, Sire? Lyna? Or Flemeth? Hey, isn't that the Witch of the Wilds, from that one legend?"

"Flemeth," the King said distantly and then blinked at the sandy-haired guard. "Wait, how'd you know she was in my dream?"

Powell looked quite uncomfortable at the question and shrugged, "Like I said, you were shouting, Majesty. You shouted Warden Commander Lyna's name a time or two, and something about Flemeth and dragons."

Pressing the blood-stained rag to his nose again, the young sandy-haired guard sniffed, saying, "When you cold-cocked me, you were yellin' at me not to take your son and then…"

"Terrance," the older guard interrupted and gave him a hard look. "Your trap is yapping. You might want to look to that." Powell jerked his head toward the door in a wordless command.

Paling a bit at Powell's glare, Terrance kept the rag up to his nose and gave Alistair a quick, nervous bow. "Ahem. Well then, Sire, since you seem to be all right, I'll just, er, go back to my post." He hurried back outside.

Powell turned his attention back to his King and said formally, "I apologize for his lack of tact, Majesty."

He shook his head and regretted doing so, as it seemed to rattle his brains around in his throbbing skull a bit more. "I can't believe I hit him. I don't even remember doing it."

"Don't blame yourself, Sire. You seemed to be quite out of it. He's young, he'll heal quickly." The guard gave him a slight bow, "I'll leave you in peace. It's nearly dawn, perhaps your sleep from here on out will be more restful." Turning, he walked out the door and pulled it closed behind him.

The thought of falling back asleep and risking yet another dream held no temptation for him. Moving more like an old man than a young king, he edged his way over to the edge of the bed and sat up with a low groan of pain. Though he had no outward physical signs, the last time he'd felt this mentally battered and bruised had been after the battle with the Archdemon. Ironically, that fight had gone much more in his favor. _At least I didn't get eaten_, he thought to himself with wry amusement and then sobered. Nathan had not been so lucky, and Lyna had not fared much better than Alistair himself.

The only other time Alistair could ever recall such a strong reaction had been that last dream he and Lyna both had right before confronting the Archdemon, when the great dragon had seemed to look directly at them. The beast's booming roar of challenge had thundered loud in both his ears and head, just as Flemeth's just had. That comparison got more disconcerting the longer Alistair thought about it. When he'd yanked his sword out of the shapeshifter's arrow-riddled body five years ago, that was it, the fabled Witch of the Wilds was dead. But after last night's dream, he suddenly wasn't so sure. Was killing a woman—if she could even be called that any more—who had endured for more than six hundred years by possessing her daughters' bodies in a long line of succession really going to be as easy as simply skewering her with a blade?

Levering himself to his feet, he walked barefooted across the cold stone floor to his clothing trunk and began to get dressed. The events of his dream replayed in his thoughts. It had started off innocently enough. For sure, it wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of being nothing more than a Grey Warden, or of having made a family with Lyna, children and all. Nathan as his son was a new feature, but not unexpected given the events of the last couple of days. That first knock on the door had shifted the fantasy from sappy, idyllic bliss into something more ominous and foreboding. Flemeth was creepy enough in the flesh but in this nightmare, she had been far more dreadful and powerful as well. The Witch of the Wilds may have been vulnerable to attack in her physical form, but in regards to her spiritual form in the Fade, the opposite seemed to be true.

That's why she was after Nathan, he abruptly realized. It was just as Wynne had suggested. The boy would be a source of unimaginable power to any maleficar, and in the hands of someone like Flemeth of all people… Alistair shivered at that notion. The Witch of the Wilds being invulnerable in both the Fade, as she had appeared to be, and in the waking world as well would most definitely be a nightmare brought to life.

He finished pulling his boots on and ran a comb quickly through his hair, sighing. Perhaps his dream had been just that, a dream, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, not with the lingering effects of Flemeth's pounding voice still throbbing dully in his head. The image of Nathan being swallowed whole by the shapeshifter flashed in his mind again and he had a sudden urge to check on the boy to make sure he was all right.

Terrance was nowhere to be seen when he opened the heavy wood door to his bedroom and went out into the hall. At his inquisitive look, Powell explained, "His nose wouldn't stop bleeding and one of the maids got a look at him and nearly fainted. He's gone to get Merrill until it stops." The guard paused before saying, "There was a bit of a din coming from Wynne's room as well. I checked in on her straight away and everything appears to be fine. It just seems you weren't the only one having nightmares last night."

Alistair hurried down the corridor to the mage's room before the balding man had even finished his explanation. He could hear a child's crying through the heavy wood door and the quiet sound of Wynne's voice as well. Not even bothering to knock, he entered the room.

Wynne was sitting on the edge of the bed with Nathan cradled in her lap, doing her best to calm the sobbing boy down. "We didn't wake you up, did we?" she asked when she saw him, her face strained with worry.

"I wouldn't have cared if you had," he told her and made his way over to the bed to sit down beside her. Nathan started at the sound of his voice and began struggling to get free of the mage's arms, his small face streaked with tears. Alistair instinctively reached out to take the little boy from her and held him to his chest, soothing him, "It's all right, it was just a bad dream, you're fine…" The words seemed rather ridiculous to say out loud but that didn't matter, because they seemed to be helping none the less. The wracking sobs were subsiding, though the child still clung to his neck with desperation and his tunic was soaked clear through with tears.

The mage pulled the wet fabric of her sleeping gown away from her shoulder with one hand, while wiping sleep away from her eyes with the other. Her long grey hair flowed down her back, free of the bun she kept it in at all times during the day. "He woke up a short while ago, screaming. I've been trying to calm him down, though with less success than you're having," she said with rueful humor, watching the man and child.

Nodding over Nathan's head, Alistair confided, "I had one myself, bad enough that Powell and Terrance had to wake me up. I was shouting loud enough in my sleep that they thought I was under attack, which, in a way, I suppose I was, since that's exactly what was happening in my dream." Grimacing, he patted the boy on the back, careful to avoid his shoulders. The boy's weeping had subsided to loud sniffles and ragged hiccups.

"What happened to Terrance, anyway? I saw his nose was bleeding, but was otherwise occupied at the time." Wynne reached out, brushing her hand over the child's head. "I wonder what his nightmare was about. I suspect it was more memory than dream, perhaps something of his ordeals before we found him in the road."

Coughing, the King admitted, "I uh, kind of hit Terrance. Accidently, of course. Powell said when they tried to wake me, I was thrashing around and got him good. I don't even remember doing it," he said, embarrassed. "I suppose I thought he was Flemeth." The instant he said the name, Nathan shuddered and started crying again.

Wynne's eyebrows rose at the boy's reaction and her blue eyes rose up to meet Alistair's. "He knows her name? She was dead before he was even born, how would he know her name?" she wondered, sounding confused.

"I'm not sure," he replied as he tried to still the child's tears again with quiet sounds. When he had been a child, sometimes the older children would try to scare little ones by telling them that Flemeth was coming to steal them away, so perhaps he may have heard her name in that regard. Thinking for a moment, he lowered his head a touch to ask, "Nathan, did you have a nightmare about Flemeth too?"

The child nodded into the crook of his neck, his small body shaking.

Alistair paused, closing his eyes and almost dreading the answer to his next question. "Were Lyna and I both there with you?" The hairs on the back of his neck rose when the child trembled and nodded again.

"Are you thinking you both had the same dream? What happened in it," Wynne asked uneasily, looking between the two. As a mage, she was even more familiar with the dangers of the Fade than he.

"It started out simply enough." He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment as he explained the ridiculous fantasy that the dream had began with. "I was just a Grey Warden in my dream and Lyna and I were, uh, married. Nathan was our son."

The grey-haired mage nodded once, and there was something sympathetic in her eyes when she regarded him. "Not an uncommon vision for you, I would think, is it? Wishing you were back to being just a normal person that no one looked twice at? I myself have had countless dreams in which I was nothing more than a simple peasant woman, not a mage, able to raise my son in peace," she said and gave a sad shake of her head. "Waking up to reality always seems more difficult afterwards."

The boy had calmed down again and shifted in Alistair's arms, turning sideways on his lap to rest his cheek against the man's chest. His small face was streaked with tears and he rubbed his runny nose with the back of his hand, sniffling noisily.

Sighing, the King shook his head. "No, it's not the first time I've had dreams like that, though of course this was the first one where he was my son."

"Tati," Nathan whispered longingly, glancing upward at him.

The paternal term of endearment hung in the air for a moment and Wynne stiffened a little, pursing her lips. "Go on about the nightmare."

Alistair's arm tightened around the child and he swallowed down the lump in his throat before continuing, "Someone knocked on the door and when I opened it, it was Flemeth. To make a long story short, she turned into a dragon and attacked us. She said that I had something that belonged to her, and her voice…" He shuddered at the memory of the booming voice. "I could hear it and feel it in my head. It was so loud it the force of it alone almost knocked me to my knees. Lyna and I tried to fight her, for all the good that did. She knocked both of us aside and then picked him up and ate him. She just swallowed him down whole."

Nathan whimpered as he spoke, hiding his face in the man's shirt again and clinging to him.

Wynne rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, crossing her arms and resting her fingertips on her chin in thought. "You say she spoke to you?" she asked, turning towards him. "What did she say, can you remember?"

He nodded and shifted the little boy on his lap, holding him protectively. "How could I forget, the way she was pounding every word into my head like a hammer, I've still got a headache from it," he added with a wince. "She said that our weapons couldn't harm her in the Fade, and that certainly was true. My sword had no effect on her. I felt like I was trying to chop down a tree with a rotten stick. Lyna's arrows either bounced or shattered into splinters against her hide."

"That's it? She said nothing else that might give us a clue as to her intentions?"

"Her intentions seemed pretty clear to me,she was after Nathan and was willing to do anything it took to get him," Alistair pointed out. "She said she had waited for him for five centuries and through two Blights. And she called him something—Urthiel? Urthmal? Urth-something or another, anyway," he said, noticing with vague awareness that the boy had gone still in his arms. "You know how bad I am with names, assuming it was even a name she called him by. It could have been a curse word, I suppose."

The mage sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily, confessing, "I have always wondered if that would be the end of it, when we killed Flemeth. The battle seemed remarkably easy—or easy as far as killing dragons can be referred to as such."

"Easy," he repeated, giving her an incredulous look. "I seem to remember her picking me up and shaking me like I was a Mabari's chew toy before you hit her with a spell that knocked me free. She broke three of my ribs, if you will recall."

"Even so," Wynne said with a dismissive gesture, "if it were as uncomplicated piercing her with a blade or arrow, Flemeth's name likely never would have become legend. I should have known better, especially after reading her grimoire."

"What, you mean in regards to her taking over her daughter's bodies over the years? Lyna told me that's what she had in mind for…" he had to force himself to say the woman's name, "Morrigan." Nathan squirmed restlessly in his lap and he loosened his grip on the boy so he could slide down to the floor if he wanted to. "Anyway, why haven't you said something before now, if you didn't think that was the end of it?"

She was about to respond when someone knocked on the door. They both looked in that direction, and Wynne held her hand up, beckoning him to wait a moment as she went over to answer.

Lyna was waiting outside, flanked by the two royal guards on either side of the door. The elf tugged on her ear tip, her pale green eyes slipping past Wynne to where Alistair sat on the bed with Nathan. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said haltingly, dropping her hand down.

"Not at all, dear," Wynne said, shaking her head. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you, for some reason. Let me guess, you had a bad dream about Flemeth?" She stepped aside to let the other woman into the room and was about to close the door behind her when a great black snout blocked her. Lyna's Mabari hound Bowen followed her into the room, nudging his head up under her hand.

The woman's stunned expression would have been amusing, under different circumstances. "How did you know?" Lyna demanded, her jaw slack with surprise.

"You weren't the only one to have had a bit of a run-in with her last night," Alistair informed her with a grimace. He reached out a hand toward the Mabari, offering it for the animal to sniff. "It's good to see you, boy. I was wondering where you'd gotten off to—did you raid the larder and get banished already?"

Bowen gave a sad whine of assent in response to the King's question, leaving Lyna's side long enough to nuzzle his hand gently before cocking his head inquisitively at Nathan, who looked back at him with equal amounts of curiosity.

Wynne reclaimed her seat on the mattress beside him with a weary sigh. "Your timing is impeccable, Lyna, as it saves us from having to go over everything twice," she said with a hint of a smile.

"Wait, so you're saying that you dreamed of Flemeth last night too?" the elvish Warden asked.

Indicating Nathan with a slight shift of his arms, Alistair nodded. "We both did, and not only did we dream of Flemeth, I suspect we all three had the same dream. Where we were all three at the Keep in Amaranthine, living happily ever after and all that when someone knocked at the door…"

"…And it was Flemeth, who shifted into a dragon and attacked," she continued the story when he paused for a breath, her eyes wide. "You were really there, in my dream."

He frowned at her, "I'd say it was the other way around, that you were in my dream."

"No, it must have been my dream, because I've dreamed that before," she flushed, tucking her hair behind her ears with a quick gesture and avoiding his eyes.

"You have?" It was childish, especially in light of the fact that he'd made a similar confession only a short time ago, but Alistair couldn't help feeling inordinately pleased by her admission. Still, he was honest enough to be compelled him to say, "I've had similar dreams myself, so it still could have been my dream."

Wynne rolled her eyes, "What makes you two think that the dream was either of yours? It could have just as easily been Nathan's dream, could it not?"

Lyna's expression softened as looked at Nathan's face, noting his puffy eyes and the lingering traces of tears on his cheeks. "You poor thing," she said sympathetically, "you must have been scared out of your mind."

"He wasn't the only one," Alistair muttered under his breath, remembering his blind panic when Flemeth had grabbed the boy up in her claws.

Straightening up a touch in the King's lap, Nathan looked from Lyna to her Mabari and back again.

"Would you like to meet Bowen? He's the bravest, smartest companion I've ever had," the elf informed him with a smile, her gaze flicking up to Alistair's for a moment as she added with light humor, "present company included. Just hold out your hand like this, so he can get to know you." She demonstrated, stretching out her hand, palm down.

Ever the opportunist, Bowen nudged his large head beneath her hand in a silent plea for attention. His request did not go unanswered, as she chuckled and scratched him right between his ears until the beast sighed with bliss.

"Don't let his size fool you, he's a complete softie," Wynne said with amusement. "Unless of course, you threaten to give him a long fluffy tail and antlers." The dog chuffed at her haughtily and turned his head to regard the child with a curious look.

Nathan extended his small hand, holding it still for the Mabari. The dog sniffed it then gave it a cursory swipe with his tongue, wagging his short stubby tail. Bowen proceeded to snuffle the boy all over, making him grin for the first time all morning as he stroked the war dog's head.

Alistair smiled as well and glanced at Lyna over the top of the boy's dark head. She was studying Nathan, a pensive expression on her face. "Is something wrong?" he asked, a hint of worry clouding his tone.

Lyna looked up at him, blinking a bit, and gave a slight shake of her head. "Not at all. I was just thinking, is all." Her gaze dropped down to the boy again and she thoughtfully observed, "I was just looking at his eyes. He has old eyes. Marethari, the Keeper of my Clan, would have taken one look at him and said, 'He has the wind in his eyes.' I'd heard her say it, but I don't think I really understood it until now."

Tilting her head, Wynne repeated the words to herself. "I don't think I've heard that phrase before," she admitted, "though I suspect I can get the gist of the meaning, just from what you have said about his eyes. I've thought the same."

"I don't know what either of you are talking about," Alistair said with exasperation, not quite able to believe they had noticed something about the boy that he had somehow missed. He moved the boy away from himself, just enough so that he could see his small face.

Nathan shifted his gaze away for a few moments, but when the man put his finger on the child's chin with gentle insistence and nudged it upwards, he gave a soft sigh and looked directly at him.

His eyes weren't hazel at all, Alistair immediately realized, and wasn't quite able to believe that he had ever thought they were. Instead, the irises were a molten gold color, flecked through with dark mahogany specks, and there was something in them, wisdom and regrets and other hidden depths that made the boy seem far older than his size and appearance would indicate him to be.

"The phrase 'he's got the wind in his eyes' means he's seen things few have seen and live to tell of. Things that have changed him from what he might have been into what he is now," Lyna was explaining. "I would never have thought I'd see such an expression in a child's eyes, though I expect Keeper Marethari might say the same thing about us now, if she looked at you or I, Alistair. Perhaps you as well, Wynne."

Bowen moved away from the bed, returning to his master's side and laid down on the stone floor with a heavy sigh.

"Given what we know of the child, perhaps the adage is not untoward," the mage said kindly, reaching out to pat the boy on the back.

Alistair removed his fingertip from Nathan's chin and cradled him close to his chest again in a hug. Lightly soothing his hand over the boy's head in an affectionate gesture, the man rested his cheek against the dark hair and held him in a protective embrace.

"So," Lyna said, her tone all business as she straightened, looking between the former templar and mage. "Flemeth may yet still be alive, despite the fact that we left her great carcass rotting on the ground outside her hut five years ago? How can that be?"

Wynne rose to her feet and made her way over to the vanity. "I have been asking myself the same question, and the most obvious conclusion is that the spirit that has maintained her, be it one of vengeance or rage or something darker, survives even when her mortal body lies slain." The mage sat down at the chair and stared in contemplation at her own reflection for a long moment before angling her point of view to look at them through the mirror. "Ironically, she and I are rather like opposite sides of the same coin," she said with a sad smile.

"What? Opposite sides of the same coin?" Alistair repeated. "You and Flemeth are nothing alike!"

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Wynne said, "Are we not?" She picked up a hairbrush and started to brush out her long grey hair, explaining, "We're both possessed by symbiotic spirits that have kept us alive when we both would have otherwise died. Mine is benevolent. Hers is not. Yet in the end, the result is the same. We both live, well past our time. Her far more so than myself," she allowed.

"I can see the comparison," Lyna said, twisting one of her braids around her fingertip.

Sputtering, the King shook his head, "I don't think there's any comparison at all. Yes, you might have died without your spirit's intervention, but it doesn't compel you to take the bodies of other people by possessing them, or make you immortal. If anything, using your spirit's gifts weakens both of you, isn't that what you told us? That if you did too much for too long, you'd…" he couldn't bring himself to say the word. Losing Wynne would probably be even worse than losing Duncan had been. She was the closest thing to a real family that he'd ever had.

"Yes, it's true that I would die, if I overexerted myself," she said bluntly. "Flemeth's spirit is far more powerful than the one that sustains me though, and she has had hundreds of years to hone her powers." Wynne set the brush down and twisted the length of her hair into a long, thick rope, asking, "You said that she told you that weapons would have no effect on her in the Fade?"

"More like trumpeted it," Lyna said, wincing in recollection of the dragon's mighty voice. "But we know her physical form can be killed, albeit with difficulty. A dragon is a formidable opponent. Why would her spiritual form be any different? I mean, yes she's old and powerful but everything has a weakness, there must be some way to kill her in both this world and the Fade."

Nathan squirmed, restless, and edged his way off of Alistair's lap. The boy made his way over to where Bowen lay and sat down on the floor next to the dog, petting his sides in long slow strokes. The Mabari wagged his short tail and sighed happily, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed.

"Well we'll just have to figure it out, then. If we can kill her spirit in the Fade, then she won't be able to take on any other hosts, I'd think. It seems like that'd be the key to getting rid of her once and for all," Alistair said, "and we need to figure it out soon, before she gets a chance to get her grubby paws on Nathan."

Lyna looked down, watching the boy as he continued to pet the war dog. Puzzled, she asked, "What exactly is it about Nathan that would make Flemeth so interested in him? He's what, four years old? Five at the most? Too young to be a mage, surely. And he's not a girl, so I would say that automatically exempts him from being one of 'Flemeth's Daughters'."

Wynne was tucking her hair into a bun and froze momentarily at the question.

Tapping his fingers on his knee, Alistair wasn't quite sure of the best way to explain Nathan's gifts. Certainly, showing would be far more revealing than telling, but what could he do? He certainly wasn't going to throw the boy in front of a runaway carriage to test their theory. "It's… difficult to explain," he said lamely.

Crossing her arms, Lyna raised an eyebrow at him. "Difficult to explain? Well then, can you show me?"

"That might be difficult to do as well," Wynne said and made a face. "Not to mention dangerous." The mage tucked one last bobby pin into her bun and turned around in her chair.

Alistair exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "There's no really easy to tell you and I don't really want to show you in a way that you would believe." He scratched the stubble on the side of his face for a moment, figuring the best way to do it was just to dive right on in. "What would you say if I told you that a few moments after I saw this boy for the first time, he was in the middle of the road being run over by a horse and wagon."

Lyna blinked at that. "I'd say that it was a good thing you had Wynne with you, or he might not be sitting here beside me on the floor petting Bowen."

"That's the trick of it, though. I didn't heal him," the mage told her before her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. Hopping to her feet, she hurried over to her clothing trunk and began to root through it, searching for something.

"Not to mention, it wouldn't have done any good if you had, because healing doesn't work on him," the King pointed out.

Furrowing her brow, the Warden tried to make sense of their words. "So you're saying that this child was trampled by horses and came away unharmed? That's impossible," she stated, shaking her head. "I am not sure what you think you saw, but at the very least, he'd have broken bones, cracked ribs, scrapes, possibly even hoof shaped bruises on his body."

"You mean hoof shaped marks like these?" Wynne asked, turning around and holding up the dirty white smock Nathan had been wearing when they found him. The distinct impressions of two hooves were clearly visible on the fabric.

"I…" Lyna seemed at a loss for words. "Yes, something like that," she said faintly and looked from the smock down to Nathan. "Maybe the horseshoe markings were on the clothing before you ever saw him in the road," she suggested.

"I might have thought the same had I not seen the horse knock him down and run over him with my own eyes," the ex-templar said, shuddering at the memory. "Believe me, it's not something I ever want to see again."

The grey-haired mage shrugged and tucked the smock back into her pack before pulling out a change of clothes for the little boy. She walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, calling, "Nathan, would you please come here? It's time to put on some clothes, and then we'll go down and get some breakfast."

Nathan gave Bowen one last pat on the head and got to his feet, padding across the floor to stand in front of the mage. "Brace yourself," Alistair gave Lyna the grim warning.

"Lift your arms up and turn around," Wynne ordered and he obliged, raising his arms up over his head so she could pull his sleeping gown off with ease.

Lyna had been given a vague explanation about the scars on the boy's legs, but seeing them was another matter. She hissed out an elvish curse, her eyes blazing with anger and turned away, clenching her fists.

Nathan worried his lip, peering up at the elf uncertainly before turning to receive a hug from Wynne. The boy rested his cheek on the mage's shoulder and looked at Alistair with a sad sigh.

The King scooted close enough to reach out and tousle the boy's dark hair with affection, reassuring him, "She's not mad at you, she's mad at who did that to you. Just like we were."

"Oh!" Wynne made a small sound of surprise when the child drew back from his hug and examined the marks on his shoulders. "Look, Alistair, they're almost healed already," she said, pointing out the wounds, or what was left of them. They'd still leave nasty scars behind of course, but even so, at least they had healed without complications.

"Who or what did that to him?" Lyna asked tightly, her entire body still taut with anger. "Those are spider bites, you know that, right?"

"I know. I've got scars exactly like that, remember? From when we went to the Deep Roads," he reminded her.

Frowning, the elf inquired, "Wait, if he got run over by horses and didn't get hurt by that, how come he's got spider bites all over his legs?"

Wynne shrugged, pulling a shirt over Nathan's head. "As you said, everything has a weakness. Spiders may be one of his. It's not something we're eager to test the limit on, honestly, the extent of his invulnerability—if it's even extensive enough to be called that. The wounds on his shoulders were much worse two nights ago, and my healing magic did nothing to improve them. If he's immune to healing magic, then he may be immune to all magic, and there's just no real way of knowing without risking harming him in the process. As you can see, he's been hurt quite enough." She finished dressing the little boy and levered herself to her feet, saying, "Now, if you two would give an old lady some privacy, I'll finished getting dressed and we can head on downstairs for breakfast. It's a bit early yet, but I'm sure they've got something for early risers."

"The early bird gets the worm, but the late mouse gets the cheese," Alistair quipped, taking Nathan by the hand and leading him toward the doorway. "We'll meet you downstairs," he said, holding the door open for Lyna (and by default, Bowen as well) before following her out into the hallway.

Nathan reached out to take Lyna's hand as well, walking between her and Alistair, Bowen trailing a few feet behind. His royal guards followed at a discreet distance. The King glanced downwards at the boy and the first part of the dream came to mind again. "It wasn't such a bad dream to start off with, was it?" he asked, giving her a sidelong glance with a crooked smile. "Being married to me the Grey Warden, raising our son in peace and quiet, and all that. Before you know who came along and ruined everything."

"Mmhmm, it wasn't a nightmare that early on, no," Lyna allowed, smiling down at Nathan. "But seriously, that's how I knew it was a dream. Your lamb and pea soup never tasted that good when we ate it at camp," she teased and then laughed brightly at his affronted expression.

* * *

Alistair spent most of the day doing the sort of kingly stuff that he went out of his way to avoid doing when he was at home in Denerim. He attended administrative meetings with Arl Teagan and local Banns from the area surrounding Redcliffe (four of whom had brought their daughters with them in hopes of catching the King's eye). Chancellor Eamon, anticipating his eventual arrival, had sent a courier with a satchel stuffed full of letters and documents that were 'for the King's eyes only'. He replied to so many of them that his hand cramped. He worked out the ache by spending a bit of time sparring with his royal guards, doing his best to ignore the audience that gathered to watch.

Two of the Banns' daughters were particularly persistent. He could hardly take ten steps in any direction without encountering one, or worse, both, of them. Both girls were pretty enough he supposed, but he just wasn't interested. Not now, and quite probably, not ever. He made the mistake of confessing to Lyna at lunch that he was starting to feel hunted, and instead of helping him dodge them, she told them where to find him next. The elf was evil. Pure evil. No doubt she'd learned at least some of that from Wynne.

There was a mid afternoon lull in his obligations, and Alistair took full advantage of it by hiding in the stables, figuring it was probably the least likely place fancily dressed noblewomen would come looking for him. With any luck, they were allergic to manure, or better yet, hay. He told—ok, who was he kidding?—no, he begged his guards to make themselves scarce or inconspicuous enough that no one would suspect they were posted on duty, and then retreated upstairs to the safety of the hayloft.

He flopped back onto the hay and closed his eyes, losing himself in the familiar odors of the place that in many ways had been more of a home to him than Redcliffe Castle itself. A slight rustling nearby in the loft caught his attention and he froze. Maker's breath, had they found him already? Surely his guards would have warned them off. Weren't they supposed to protect him from all danger, up to and including predatory noblewomen?

"Your Majesty?" a woman asked hesitantly.

The voice didn't sound like either of his tormenters, but he wasn't taking any chances. "He's not here," he said.

There was a long period of silence then the rustling got louder. A moment later, the Warden Fiona's head popped up over the edge of a nearby hay bale. Her dark eyes widened at the sight of the Ferelden monarch sprawled out on the hay.

Alistair couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker, it's just you."

She blinked. "Were you expecting someone else, Sire?"

"Shhh, don't call me that, they may hear," he whispered, gesturing at her to keep her voice down.

"Who will?" she asked, baffled by his odd behavior.

The words had no more than left her mouth when he heard giggling voices coming from down below. "Ewww it stinks!" Violet pronounced. "Are you sure he came in here?"

"Well I didn't see him come in here, but I recognized two of his guards outside," Penelope informed her haughtily. "Where he goes, they go."

Fiona had heard the two intruders as well and kept still and silent. With any luck, the two women would lose interest and leave any moment now.

"I saw them as well, but one was sleeping and the other polishing her sword. Did you see that woman's hands? She has the most awful scars. Honestly, if my hands were that badly scarred I don't think I could ever show my face again," Violet confessed in a loud whisper.

Alistair ground his teeth at the careless cruelty in the noblewoman's words. Tamara had received those scars pulling burning debris off of refugees who were fleeing Denerim ahead of the darkspawn.

"Who cares about her hands, when she gets to guard the King of Ferelden?" Penny pointed out and then gasped, "I wonder if she's ever seen him naked?"

"I bet she has," Violet responded, sounding utterly scandalized before she muttered, "That lucky sow."

Flushing bright red, he had to stifle a groan of mortification. He couldn't believe they were talking about seeing him naked.

"Shhh, did you hear that?" Penny asked sharply. "I think it was coming from the hayloft. I'm going to climb up and look," she announced, and a moment later, the ladder creaked from the girl's weight as she began to climb up.

"I'm up here," Fiona announced without warning, making her way over to the edge of the platform.

Penelope emitted a muffled squeak of surprise and landed on the ground with a thud.

"It's an elf?! You there, Elf! What're you doing up there?" Violet demanded. "Stealing something, no doubt. I know how you elves are."

"That is Senior Warden Fiona to you," the mage said, the words dripping ice while she rose to her feet so that the griffon emblem on her chain shirt was clearly visible, "and what I am doing up here is my business and not yours."

Both girls gasped in unison, and Penny stammered, "Begging your pardon, Warden. We were, uh, just looking for King Alistair."

Fiona smirked with disbelief. "I see. And do you really think that the King of Ferelden would be found in the stable, of all places?"

"See, I told you he wasn't in here!" Violet furiously whispered. "We're sorry for disturbing you," she said in a louder voice. "Come on, Penny!" The girl grabbed hold of her friend's arm and together they hurried out.

After all sounds from the two women had faded, Fiona cleared her throat and sked with genuine curiosity, "Is this a common occurrence?"

"What, people talking about seeing me naked? I certainly should hope not!" Alistair exclaimed, feeling as though his face was on fire with embarrassment.

Her lips twitched with the effort of trying not to smile. "I was referring to you being chased around by young noblewomen to the point where you hide in the stables."

"The chasings, no, not since I first became King, thank the Maker. Getting married put a stop to that." That had been one good thing about marrying Chana, at least. He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "Hiding in the stables though, more than I care to admit, especially here at Redcliffe, which makes little sense, I suppose. You'd think I'd have been smart enough to choose a better hiding place than this as a boy," he said with wry amusement, opening his eyes to look at her.

Fiona edged her way around a bale of hay and sat down on it. "Why would this be a bad hiding place?" she queried.

It felt a bit disrespectful to be stretched out on his back with her staring down at him, so Alistair sat up and shifted backwards, using a bale as a backrest and loosely rested his arm on a knee. "Because it's rather pointless to hide in your bedroom when you're in trouble, I suppose." He made a face, looking around, "Though I suppose 'bedroom' doesn't really work, does it? It's got neither a bed nor a room."

The elf mage had turned around to pick up her staff from behind her and stiffened at his words. Frowning, she propped the staff against her leg and said with disbelief, "This was your bedroom? The stables?"

He shrugged, correcting, "As I said, not a bedroom, but yes, this was where I slept as a boy, as far back as I can remember. I was raised as a commoner, after all, or didn't you know that?" By now, he'd have thought everyone knew at least that much about him, even as far away as Weisshaupt.

"I knew you were raised as a commoner, but the vast majority of commoners sleep on beds, not in the stables," Fiona returned in a sharp voice, her fingers tightening around her staff. "When Lyna told me that Arl Eamon had raised you, I assumed she meant that you stayed in the castle, perhaps living amongst the servants."

"Ha! I should have been so lucky. Nope, only the finest beds of hay in all of Ferelden for the bastard son of a king," Alistair said cheerfully. Her expression was one of pure outrage and he tried to lighten her mood by pointing out, "Honestly, I think I'd have preferred the stables anyway. At least out here, I could get some privacy, right? The servant quarters were pretty cozy and there were always people coming and going at all hours of the day and night."

Fiona did not seem to be mollified in the least, and she seemed to be even worse than hiding her emotions than he was. Anger, frustration and—was that guilt?—played over her features in turn, and the silence that followed was filled with tension. Eventually she broke it, asking, "Were you mistreated?" her dark eyes studying his face as she waited for his answer.

He blinked at the ridiculous question. "Was I…? Of course not! Eamon is a good man," he stated firmly. "Do you really think I would have made him my Chancellor otherwise? I was fed, taken good care of, given proper schooling and I had a roof over my head, and that's more than many orphans get. No, I wasn't raised as his son, or as a prince either, but I wasn't beaten or abused, if that's what you're wondering."

She nodded, breathing a visible sigh of relief, a bit of the tension melting away from her petite frame. The elf cast her gaze downward, passing her staff from one hand to the other and framed her word slow and with care, "I… apologize if my questions seem very forward and intrusive, your Majesty. It's just that... as both a mage and a Grey Warden, having a child…I find myself especially sensitive to…" Her voice trailed off and she shook her head, not quite able to go on.

Alistair remembered a discussion with Wynne from long ago and had a flash of intuition. "You had to give up your child?"

Fiona's head jerked up and she stared at him for a long moment before giving him a slow nod. "My son," she finally said, shifting her gaze to her hands and exhaling. "Yes. I gave him up, with the expectation that he would be taken good care of. I thought I was making the right decision at the time." She continued with obvious difficulty, "It's just that, now I'm realizing that I had no way of knowing for sure how he was raised, since I was completely uninvolved in his life."

"I'm sure he's grown up to be a fine young man," he reassured her. "A nice, interesting fellow, no doubt. With a great personality."

"Nice, interesting, and with a great personality?" she echoed, wrinkling her nose. "That's rather superficial. I think I'd prefer kind. Trustworthy, perhaps compassionate. Honorable, for sure."

"Ah yes, and we can't leave off his lovely sense of humor." Alistair grinned, gesturing with his hand, "There you go. He could be any one of those things. Or possibly even all of them."

She seemed to be biting the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile. "Mmm," she said noncommittally.

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit before curiosity got the better of him. "So, what brings you to Ferelden, if you don't mind me asking? Are you planning on joining the Warden Keep at Amaranthine?"

Fiona sighed at the question. "It's been a long time since I traveled anywhere, to be honest. Since I was recalled to Weisshaupt Fortress, actually."

"Recalled to Weisshaupt Fortress," Alistair echoed. "That sounds ominous. Why were you recalled?"

Pursing her lips, she shook her head. "There was an incident here in Ferelden." The elf put the barest hint of inflection on the word 'incident'.

"An 'incident'. I see" Just from the way she said it, he could tell there was a definite story there. "What happened, or is this one of those 'Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies' kind of incidents?"

She seemed to be debating how much to say and gave a little shrug. "To make a long story short, Grey Wardens died, and Duncan and I very nearly joined them." Fiona shot him a sidelong glance, "King Maric was involved as well, actually."

Alistair straightened, exclaiming, "That's where I know your name from! You were with Duncan when he first met Maric, weren't you? He mentioned something about the King helping you with some Grey Warden business, but never went into any more detail than that. I'm very sorry I forgot," he said apologetically. "I'm terrible with names."

Fiona gave him a small smile, "It's quite all right. I'm not really anyone worth remembering."

"And that was the last time you were in Ferelden? And then you were recalled to Weisshaupt? How long ago was that, exactly?"

She hesitated before responding, "Twenty-seven years ago, give or take."

His eyebrows shot upward, "Twenty-seven years ago? Maker, when they recall you, they really recall you." The King tilted his head, "Coincidentally, that's right around the time I was born."

"Was it?" Fiona asked vaguely, not quite looking at him.

If she was traveling for the first time in nearly thirty years, that could only mean one thing. His tone was subdued when he asked, "How long before you'll go?"

"Before I'll go? Go where?"

"To answer the Calling," he replied, as though the reason was obvious. "That's why you left Weisshaupt, isn't it?"

To his surprise, she said, "No, actually, it wasn't." Pensively rubbing her hand up and down her staff, she explained, "When I was in Ferelden before, with Duncan and Maric and Kell and the other Grey Wardens, things happened." Her elven face was both sad and regretful when she peered at him, "It's difficult to describe the exact series of events, but the end result was this, that I am immune to the Calling. I will never hear it. That's why they recalled me to Weisshaupt Fortress, to study me and see if my condition, if it could even be called that, could be replicated to save other Grey Wardens from that fate."

Alistair grimaced, running his fingers through his hair. "Since I haven't heard anything about a miraculous cure, I'm going to guess that they haven't been able to repeat it?" He didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the day when he'd hear the Calling. It would happen when it happened. But that didn't mean he wouldn't jump at a chance to skip over the one-way trip to the Deep Roads, given another choice.

"I'm afraid not," she said with genuine regret. "As much as I wish otherwise. I've spent the last twenty-seven years stuck at the Fortress, waiting and hoping they'd find something that would at least help delay it. I think I've read every single codex entry, lore book, grimoire and risqué novel in the Library there at least twice. In between being used as a pincushion, that is, from how much of my blood they've taken and studied over the years. When Lyna announced that she'd be returning to Ferelden, I told them I was coming with them. They didn't really want to let me come, but I was quite firm." Her expression was stony when she said that last part.

"Well I hope you're enjoying your first vacation in nearly three decades. Such lovely sights to see here in Ferelden, though I'm not sure that I'd have put the Redcliffe stables on the list," he confessed, chuckling.

"My trip has been full of surprises so far," Fiona said, lifting her small chin and giving him a faint smile.

Alistair regarded the elf curiously. He had pegged her as a bit odd after their first meeting, but she wasn't so bad really once you got talking to her. He couldn't imagine being cooped up anywhere for such a long time, he'd have been bored out of his mind. Toss in having blood drawn at regular intervals and it made a life of boredom as a Templar seem almost kind in comparison.

The thought of blood made him think of Nathan, and than in turn made him think back to how the day had started with the nightmare about Flemeth. "I've got a question for you, Fiona. You said you read a lot of histories and the like while you were at the Fortress? Did any of them happen to mention Flemeth? Or, more specifically, how to kill her? Like, permanently, once and for all?"

Fiona rubbed her chin, pondering his question. "I'll have to think about it. I know there've been quite a few accounts in which she's been killed, but she always seems to return a few years later, so it'd be difficult to separate fact from fiction. All of them seem to agree on one thing though, and that's that the abomination that possesses her is very powerful—a spirit of vengeance and retribution. Cormac supposedly slew her and burned her at the stake, along with her daughters, but she keeps coming back, or so it seems anyway. Why?"

"Just trying to plan ahead," Alistair said with a grim smile. He drummed his fingers on his knee, replaying the nightmare's events one more time in his head and thought of another question. "Do you know what Urthrial means?" He frowned, "No that wasn't it, it was, hm, Urmethel? Uthamel?.. blast it, what was it she said…"

"Urthemiel?" she suggested.

Alistair snapped his fingers, "That's it! That was what she said! Urthemiel, yes. What does that mean? Is it an Elvish word?" he inquired, looking at her. "A curse or something?"

Fiona seemed amused by the question, "It's not elvish, or a curse either. You really don't know, do you?" She asked disbelievingly.

Hoping he didn't look as confused as he felt, the King shook his head. "No, I really don't know what it is. If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," he pointed out with a hint of exasperation.

"I apologize, it's just I'd figure that you of all people would know, since you killed him. Urthemiel is the name of the Old Tevinter God of Beauty, the one who would eventually become the Archdemon of the Fifth Blight and the high dragon you slew on top of Fort Drakon, though I'm not quite sure how you're here talking with me, if that's the case." Fiona studied him, her eyes shadowed.

It took a minute for her words to sink in and he rolled to his feet so fast that his stomach lurched. That may have been a physical reaction to the full meaning of what he had just been told, though. "Wait, let me get this straight," Alistair said, holding up a hand as he worked his way through it again. "Are you telling me that Urthemiel is the name of an Old God?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Fiona said with a hint of impatience. "And Urthemiel was the Archdemon from the Fifth Blight. If you didn't know that, where'd you hear the name?"

He swallowed, drawing on every bit of his Templar discipline to keep from flying apart at the seams. The blood rushed through his head, muffling the sound of his own voice as he spoke, "Flemeth. She, ah, said the name to me once. A long time ago," he lied, though it did seem like an age had passed since that morning. "That's why I was asking about her."

"Oh," she said and cocked her head at him, asking with concern, "Are you all right? You're looking a bit green around the gills all of the sudden."

"Yes. I mean, no." He shook his head, "I really don't feel well at all, actually." That part, at least was true. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but would you excuse me?" Without even waiting for her response, he started climbing down the ladder from the hayloft and made his way out of the stables.

Tamara was sitting on a stool by the fencepost. She took one look at the King's face and jerked to her feet, giving a quick sharp whistle. A breath later, Welborne joined them. "Sire?" she said tentatively, resting her hand on her weapon as she moved into flanking position at his shoulder.

"Where's the boy?" Alistair asked as casually as he could manage, walking with quick long strides across the courtyard toward the steps leading up to the castle. Gauging from their expressions, he failed on sounding normal. It had to do with the fact that his lips felt numb with shock.

The guards exchanged quick, worried glances and Tamara said, "I believe he's with Lady Kaitlyn and her son. The boys have been playing together all day. Sire, what's wrong?" she demanded.

He had to bite back an almost hysterical giggle at her question. "What's wrong? What makes you think something's wrong?" The female guard gave him an incredulous look and he held up his hand before she could say anything more, ordering, "Don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question." Jogging up the stairs to the massive double doors, he paused long enough for one of the Redcliffe guards to pull open. When they passed through, Alistair told them, "I'm going to my chambers. Would one of you fetch Nathan and bring him to me? I'd get him myself but I don't really want to worry anyone."

"Beggin' your Majesty's pardon, but you're doing a piss poor job of that," Tamara stated bluntly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The King reassured them, "I'm fine, I just got a bit of unexpected news, is all." There was the understatement of the century. "I swear to you, I'm in no danger, I'm just feeling a little stressed at the moment, and it's showing."

Welborne split off from them to go retrieve Nathan and somehow, he made it to the door to his room without encountering Violet or Penelope. He ducked inside, leaving one very tense royal guard without, and then paced back and forth, waiting for Nathan—_for his son_—to arrive.

Alistair felt caught up by such a whirlwind of emotions, he hardly could even describe how he was feeling. Once he had gotten over his initial self disgust and loathing at consummating the dark ritual with Morrigan, he had forced himself to give little thought, if any, to the child that would come from such a union. In truth, he never allowed himself to think of it, _of him_, as a child at all. It was easier that way, easier for him to consider it as nothing more than a monster like the Archdemon itself had been, inherently evil.

Because if he ever had thought of it as being born as nothing more than a baby, a newborn child with a clean slate, what kind of man would that make him? What kind of man would willfully let his child be raised, unhindered, by a woman and apostate he knew—_he knew_—could not be not be trusted. By a woman, who by all indications, had subjected the child to years of torture to the Maker knew what end? The worst part of it was that he had never bothered to look for them, or even let himself wonder about the care his child was receiving. His discussion from earlier with Fiona came to mind. How could he ever know what of person his child would grow up like, or the kind of treatment he'd receive, if he remained completely uninvolved in his life?

A quiet knock at the door brought him out of his reverie and he walked over to answer it. Captain Lyndon himself escorted Nathan into the room with one hand and had his other on his sword. The man carefully examined the room for any sign of a threat before bowing slightly and ducking outside to join Welborne and Tamara.

Alistair rested one hand on the door handle, telling the guards, "I'm not to be disturbed under any circumstances." He started to close the door and then reopened enough to amend, "Unless it's Warden Commander Lyna. If she comes by, send her in immediately."

Shutting the door, he released the handle and made his way over to Nathan, kneeling down on the thick rug right in front of the boy until he was at eye level. Alistair looked into those liquid gold eyes, Morrigan's eyes he now knew, sprinkled with a generous amount of particles in the same mahogany brown of his own. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he said hesitantly, "Urthemiel?"

There was a flicker of recognition of the name, but the child lifted his hand, pointing at himself. "Nathan," he returned, setting his jaw stubbornly.

Alistair gave a weak laugh at the correction and raised his hand, resting it on top of the boy's head to tousle with affection. "I'm sorry, Nathan it is." He sobered, sliding his large hand around to cup the side of the child's face as he said, "I've figured out your last two secrets, haven't I?"

The boy darted his gaze away, anxiously worrying his lip with his teeth and his small face held so much fear, uncertainty and absolute longing—as though he wasn't even sure he was worth being loved—that it brought tears to Alistair's eyes. "Tati," he whispered.

Raising his other hand, he rested it on the child's thin shoulder and slid his thumb across Nathan's cheek. "I am so, so sorry, that I didn't try to find you sooner, son," Alistair said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Nathan threw his arms around his father and hugged him as hard as he could.


	8. The Best Lack All Conviction

**_Chapter 7_**

There was nothing Alistair hated more than keeping secrets, which seemed rather ironic in light of the fact that he had to keep so many of the blasted things throughout his life. Until Cailan's death, his entire existence had been kept secret from all but a highly select few. Then there were the Chantry secrets, templar secrets, Grey Warden secrets, and even state secrets. For a man who detested them so much and yet held so many, having one or two more did not seem like it would make much of a difference in the long run.

He had no intentions of keeping this particular secret to himself though, not when the one person who he could trust enough to talk about anything just happened to be at Redcliffe Castle. His first priority, though, was seeing that Nathan was properly taken care of. When they had more or less recovered from their reunion, Alistair called Captain Lyndon and Tamara into his chamber, both of whom seemed relieved to see that their King was considerably less frayed around the edges than he had been a short time ago.

Still holding Nathan's small hand in his own, Alistair studied Tamara for a long moment and cocked his head. "How do you feel about children?"

The woman had been in his Royal guard since right before his Coronation, but this was the first time he had ever seen her at a loss for words. "I…what? ... children?" she echoed. Tamara's skin was already Rivaini dark, but now it was tinged an even duskier shade. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought she was blushing.

"Yes, children. You know, children?" Alistair lifted Nathan's hand and gave it a little shake of demonstration.

Captain Lyndon crossed his arms behind his back, stoic as ever as he waited for the guardswoman to answer.

"Well, er, I don't have any of my own as you know, Majesty, but I'd say the answer to that question depends on the child we're talking about," Tamara said in a guarded tone and gestured at the boy. "This one isn't too bad so long as he stays away from the horses' picket lines. Why do you ask?"

A slight grin appeared on his face at her words before the King announced, "Because effective immediately, you are Nathan's personal guard." Shifting his gaze to Lyndon, he asked, "Which of the other guards would be best suited to take shifts with Tamara? Welborne? No, that won't do, he'll have the boy memorizing the Chant of Light in his spare time, and that'd make me go mad. Madder, rather. Merrill?"

"Terrance. He's as green as grass but he's the oldest of ten or eleven children," Lyndon said without hesitation and drew his heavy brows downward. "Sire, may I point out that our duty as royal guards is to protect you." He put a very distinct emphasis on the pronoun.

"That is indeed your duty. And my order still stands," Alistair said evenly, leveling a steady gaze upon the guard captain.

All hint of redness had faded from Tamara's face and now she seemed pale with dismay. Dropping to one knee, she bowed her head in subservience, saying in a choked voice, "Sire, if I have done something to displease or offend, please tell me what it is and I promise you, I will do my utmost to make sure that it does not happen again. I live to serve you, your Majesty and would give my life to protect you."

"What are you…?" Whatever reaction Alistair had been expecting from the guardswoman, this most definitely was not it. "Maker's breath, Tamara, get up," he said, going so far as to tuck his hand beneath her arm to haul her to her feet. "You haven't done a blasted thing wrong, and this isn't a demotion," he stated.

When he released her, she stood at attention, her expression one of stony disbelief.

He sighed, looking down at Nathan, who lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. Trying to think of a phrase that would explain the importance of the duty was easier said than done. Now that he had found his son, Alistair had no intention of losing him again. "It's a special assignment," was the best he could come up with. When she still wouldn't quite meet his eyes, he said simply, "Because I trust you with this, to protect him just as you have me these past five years."

Tamara shifted her gaze to him to study him for a moment and then relaxed in increments. Bowing her head, she lifted her scarred hand to her chest. "As you wish, Majesty."

Captain Lyndon cleared his throat and said with solicitous care, "Sire, you've given a direct order, and of course I will comply with your wishes, but with respect, he's just a child. Why would he need protection from more than a nanny or a nursemaid?"

Alistair hesitated, considering his response. He was halfway inclined to tell them 'because I'm the King and I say so' and be done with it, but if he really wanted them to protect Nathan, then it was in everyone's best interest if they had a better idea of exactly who—or what, as the case might be—they were guarding him from. Rubbing his eyes, he finally spoke, "All right then. Well, there's not really an easy way to say this, so I'll just toss it right on out there. I believe that Flemeth is after him."

The two guards darted a quick glance at each other and then looked at Alistair. "Flemeth as in, the legend one, who's been dead for hundreds of years?" Lyndon said dubiously.

"That's the one, yes, but rumors of her demise were, well, exaggerated. She was very much alive when I met her nearly six years ago. Ironically, she and, ah, one of her daughters saved my life at the Battle of Ostagar. And Lyna's as well, I suppose," he said with a rueful shrug.

The guard captain cleared his throat, "Not to be doubting what you saw, but honestly, Sire, how do you know it was Flemeth at all? It could have been anyone, couldn't it have?"

Alistair snorted, "I suppose it could have, but she told us her name was Flemeth, she reportedly has a nasty habit of possessing the bodies of her maleficar daughters to extend her lifespan over centuries, and oh, she could shapeshift into the form of a high dragon. Until someone more convincing comes along, Flemeth is as good a name for her as anything else."

"A… high dragon?" Lyndon opened his mouth and then shut it with an audible snap. "Your point is taken, Majesty."

"Why would she be interested in him at all?" Tamara asked, giving Nathan a careful examination. "He's just a child, right?"

Looking down at his son, he could understand why she was asking. Aside from his eyes, the boy seemed completely unremarkable, right down to the fidgeting he started up when he realized all of the adults were staring at him. "We aren't really sure what her plans are, though we do believe it has something to do with his scars. You two know about those?" he wondered, as it occurred to him that he wasn't sure if any of the guards had seen the child's legs.

Both guards nodded grimly. "Welborne and I saw them that first morning, after he'd set the horses free on the picket line," the captain responded in a low voice.

"Wynne and I think he's been used for some sort of blood magic ritual, though we've no idea to what end. We do know the boy has certain characteristics—not magic, of course, not in one so young—that would make him of particular interest to her. As to how we know that Flemeth in particular wants him, he told us." Alistair wisely did not mention that the information came out in a dream. He could be thick-witted on occasion but he wasn't that far gone.

Lyndon blinked. "He told you? I wasn't aware he could talk at all, I've never seen the boy say a word."

"Well, he's not quite so chatty as I am, but who is? However, he has spoken to Wynne and I on occasion, and he does a good job of communicating without words." The King gently requested, "Say hello to Captain Lyndon and Tamara, Nathan."

The little boy gave the guards an engaging grin and waved 'hello'.

Laughing, he asked again, "Can you say hello, instead of just waving?" Nathan shook his head and hid his face against Alistair's thigh.

"Oh yes. He's a veritable fountain of information," Lyndon said with dry humor.

"Isn't he though?" He couldn't help but be amused of course, and tugged the boy away from his leg. "Tamara's going to take you back to play with Bryce now. You be good, and I'll see you at supper."

Nathan nodded, pulling his small hand away from the King's to slip into the guardswoman's. Her hand was right at eyelevel for the boy and when he saw the scars on the back of her hand, his eyes widened. Ever so gently, he traced one fingertip over the mottled raised flesh and then tilted his head to look up at her. "Hurts?" he asked worriedly.

Tamara had stiffened at the touch but her stern expression softened at his question. "No, they don't hurt. Not anymore," she assured the child. The woman kept her eyes lowered as she sketched a quick bow at Alistair, "Excuse us, your Majesty. Come on with you then, you don't want to keep young Bryce waiting, do you?"

Alistair watched them leave and then said to Lyndon, "Well then, I suppose I'll give you your leave. Inform Terrance of his change in duties. Oh, and please tell Warden Commander Lyna I need to speak with her at her earliest convenience."

"Of course, Sire," the captain said and left him alone.

He barely had time to pace one complete circle around the floor when there was a knock at the door and Lyna walked in, a concerned look on her face. "I was just on my way to check on you when I ran into Captain Lyndon. He said you wished to speak to me, is everything all right?"

As close to bursting with his news about Nathan as he was, her first sentence distracted him enough to ask, "You were coming to check on me? Why?"

"Fiona said she had been talking to you when you started acting all twitchy and strange," the Dalish elf said, and added with light humor, "I tried to tell her that neither of those conditions was out of the ordinary for you, but she seemed quite concerned, so here I am." She studied him, a light frown touching her lips. "I rather see what she was talking about though. What's going on?"

"It's that obvious, is it?" Alistair chuckled. Aside from the fact that he trusted her more than anyone else in the world, that was another reason he never bothered to keep the important secrets from Lyna. She could take one look at his face and know if something was troubling him. Running nervous fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "How best to say this?" he asked himself out loud. Knowing what he wanted to tell her and putting it into words that made sense seemed like two completely different things, now that she was standing in front of him. He felt such a tumult of emotions that he could hardly focus his thoughts. "Maybe we should sit down first?" he suggested lamely.

Lyna cocked her head, raising an eyebrow. "Sit down? All right, now you're starting to make me nervous." She made her way over to a low, cushioned bench alongside the wall to sit down and watched him join her. "I'm not sure if it's your intent but I'm rather getting the feeling that I need to hold on to something," she murmured.

He drummed his fingers on his knees for a few moments while she sat tensely, waiting for him to speak. Finally, he turned slightly toward her and announced, "I know why Flemeth is after Nathan." It seemed as good a place to start as any.

"Yes, I know." He must have looked surprised by her words, because she reminded him, "You and Wynne said it had something to do with his, well, whatever it is," she gestured with one hand. "The thing that helps keep him from being harmed, which, by the way, I'm admittedly still having some difficultly accepting without seeing it in action."

"Well, I have an explanation that may make the extent of Nathan's gifts a bit more believable for you, how about that?" he asked. Something occurred to him and he asked curiously, "What exactly did Fiona say to you? She was the one helped me piece it all together at the end, you know."

"She didn't say much of anything to me, other than that she was worried she had said something to upset you, and seemed genuinely concerned." Lyna seemed baffled by that, "Which is another thing I wanted to ask you about. In the two months we've traveled together, I've never exchanged more than a sentence or two with her any given time. Talking with her isn't quite as painful as talking with Sten, but she's not exactly chatty, by any means. Yet I got the impression that you two had talked? Like really talked?"

Alistair flashed a quick grin, "Well clearly she was won over by my winning personality and looks, that or she had some mercy on me while I was hiding from Violet and Penelope," he added, glaring at her. "She helped run them off, and then, well we got to talking and… Blast it, you're distracting me from my point. You were always too good at that, you know."

"It's a gift," she said modestly, tossing her head and brushing her hair behind one pointed ear. "Seriously though, finish what you were saying."

"Right. Alright then, moving right along." He drew in a slow breath and looked at her face, asking, "Do you remember what Flemeth called Nathan in the dream last night?"

Lyna winced, rubbing her temple. "How could I forget, I get a headache thinking about it. Urthemiel, right?"

"Yes. That was the name." Alistair's muscles tensed with anxiety as he continued, "Fiona knew who—or rather, what—Urthemiel was." He fell silent, looking away from her, and now all the emotions that he'd been trying to keep clamped down in front of Nathan, Tamara and Lyndon were on the verge of breaking lose with a vengeance.

She waited patiently for him to go on, leaning forward to get a better view of his face. "Alistair?" Lyna called his name and when he turned to look at her, she gasped at the sight of his tortured countenance. "Alistair, what is it?" she asked, reaching out to rest her hand on top of his and giving it a squeeze.

He swallowed, turning his hand palm up to twine his fingers with hers as he explained, "Urthemiel is the Tevinter name of one of the Old Gods. The Dragon of Beauty, to be exact, the very one I killed at Fort Drakon." Alistair felt her fingers curve with shock, the nails digging hard into his palm, and was beyond the point of caring. He shifted on the bench seat to face her directly and could hear the pain in his voice when he said it out loud for the first time, "Lyna—he's my son. Nathan is my son."

"Your…" She blinked, piecing everything together and then cursed fiercely in elvish. "The spider bites. Morrigan must have shapeshifted and…" Disgust twisted her expression. She started to say something, and then shook her head. "I… how did you find him?" she asked when she could speak again.

Alistair felt bile well up in his throat when he realized exactly how his son had come by all those scars on his legs. "Find him? I didn't find him, he found me," he admitted bitterly, his face red with shame. "I suppose he got tired of waiting for me to come save him after what, four years of putting up with Morrigan's motherly affection and decided to come see what the holdup was." Hatred flared white hot in him when he spoke the Witch's name.

Lyna's eyes darkened with sympathy and she lifted her hand to rest on his cheek, "You can't blame yourself for what she's done to him, Alistair. You had no way of knowing…"

"Didn't I?" he interrupted sharply, jerking away from her and rising to his feet to pace the floor. "I knew from the moment we met her that she couldn't be trusted. I mean, come on, Lyna, did either of us entertain the notion that she'd be raising a child in anything even remotely resembling a normal home?"

"As was recently pointed out to me, we had no way of knowing that the baby would be a child and not something else entirely," she reminded him and stood. "He was the Archdemon of the Fifth Blight, after all. Something of that might have lingered and…"

He cut her short again with a swift slicing motion of one hand, "I didn't even care enough to check. If there had been even the remotest chance that the baby could have been as normal and helpless as any other baby, a decent man, a father who cared about the well being of his son would have made the effort to be sure, and I didn't even do that." Alistair fell silent, breathing quick ragged breaths and tears stinging his eyes. He sank down again onto the bench, hunched over with guilt and covering his face with his hands as he asked in a broken voice, "Maker's breath, Lyna, what kind of man does that make me? What kind of father have I been?"

The elf sat down, wrapping one slender arm around him. He felt the gentle pressure of her head resting on his shoulder before she gently reminded him, "It's not like you've had a lot of experience with being a father, or even a good role model of your own while growing up, when you get right down to it. Nathan sought you out and doesn't seem to blame you for what's been done to him, and I doubt he wants you blaming yourself either."

Alistair exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand before he sat up enough to draw Lyna into an embrace. She settled against his chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck. "I know I've said this recently, but I've really missed talking to you, did you know that?" he whispered, and brushed a kiss to the top of her head. "I mean, seriously, horribly bad missed it. It gets boring talking to myself all the time."

Her shoulders shook with a silent laugh and her arms tightened around his chest. "I'm sure Wynne's had her ear bent a few times as well."

"Mmhmm," he nodded and then grimaced, sighing, "I have no idea how I'm going to tell Wynne about Nathan, you know. Telling you wasn't exactly easy."

Lyna shifted in his arms. "Tell her you're just continuing the standing tradition of having royal bastards."

That got a chuckle out of him. "Yes, that'll go over well." Alistair held her in silence for a few minutes and said, "I don't want to tell her. I mean, I want her to know Nathan is my son. I'm not ashamed of him or anything like that. I just don't want to explain to her exactly why I was willing to…" His voice trailed off and he could feel himself flushing. "I mean you know. With _her_, of all people." The loathing in his tone left little doubt as to who he was referring to.

"Well you can't tell her everything anyway, you know," she said after a moment.

Confused, he asked, "How do you mean?" Not that he was looking forward to telling Wynne the whole sordid story, but even so.

She drew away from his chest enough to look up at him, "I mean you can't tell her everything. One thing that was made very clear to me during my trip to Weisshaupt Fortress was that keeping the precise details regarding how an Archdemon is slain secret is paramount. We are absolutely forbidden from telling anyone who is not a Grey Warden, and they don't even want new recruits told until at least a year has passed since their Joining unless there are extenuating circumstances. That's why you didn't know, even though you'd been a Grey Warden for six months. Riordan would never have told either of us had there been any other choice."

Alistair frowned, "All right, I get keeping the whole thing about the Archdemon dying essence being pulled into a Grey Warden and killing them both a secret, but how exactly are we supposed to tell Wynne who, or what, Nathan is if we have to leave that part out? I won't lie to her about this. I can't."

"Nathan is a child, first and foremost," Lyna said, before her brows drew together in thought. "I mean, that is what he is, isn't it? Not an Archdemon in a child's body?"

He shook his head emphatically, "No, he's definitely not that. He's got some unique gifts but there's no trace of the taint in him that I can sense. The Chantry says that until the darkspawn corrupt them with the taint, the Old Gods are spirits that have taken the form of dragons and imprisoned underground by the Maker himself. Whatever he once was, as near as I can tell, now he's an innocent. A lonely little boy who's been kept apart from others all his life." Another surge of guilt filled him at that thought.

Thinking that over, she asked, "So what exactly would happen if he encountered darkspawn now that he's a child? Would he be tainted again? Or is he immune now?"

Alistair considered that and his tone was grim when he answered, "I have absolutely no intention of ever letting darkspawn get close enough to him to find out."

"Fair enough. We'll tell Wynne after supper," Lyna announced. "You just let me do most of the talking. If she asks you anything specific about the ritual that you'd rather not talk about…"

"Play dumb. Got it."

She scowled up at him, "You are not dumb. I know it, and so does Wynne. I was going to suggest that you just say you don't want to talk about it because doing so makes you sick to your stomach."

"That won't be hard," he said and gave her a rueful smile, "since that's exactly what it does."

Laughing, she hugged him again before she started to pull away. He loosened his grip on her enough to drop a quick affectionate kiss on her forehead. "I'm glad you are here, Lyna," he said simply and then released her to stand up.

"I am too," she confessed. "I'll see you at supper. By your leave, my liege." Lyna gave him an exaggerated bow and slipped out of the room smiling before he had a chance to complain.

* * *

Nathan and Bryce sat together at supper again, tended to by Lady Kaitlyn. Pretending that the boy was nothing more than Wynne's ward was very difficult now that he knew the truth, and he had to forcibly keep himself from looking over toward the two children. He suddenly found himself wondering if Maric had felt like this the time he had come to Redcliffe with Cailan, and remembered the regret he had seen in the King's eyes.

_I will not be raising my son as nothing more than a castoff though_, he decided bleakly. As soon as they got to Denerim, he'd tell Eamon—Maker's breath, the former Arl would have kittens when he found out—and have the boy confirmed as his son and heir before the nobles.

Lyna seemed to having trouble not staring at the boy as well, and Wynne's gimlet eyes weren't missing any of it. Had they not already planned on talking with her about Nathan, Alistair had a strong suspicion the mage would be pulling them aside anyway to ask them what was going on. She was too sharp by half.

Fiona said next to nothing the entire meal, though she seemed to be genuinely relieved when he told her he was feeling better. As she had done the previous night, she excused herself from the table as soon as everyone was finished eating.

Alistair chatted with Teagan and Lyna, doing his best to ignore the coquettish stares that Violet and Penelope were giving him from the opposite end of the table.

Teagan watched with a smile as Wynne and Kaitlyn shooed both boys out of the room for bath time. Thoughtfully, he observed, "I think I've finally figured out why Nathan looks so familiar. He looks a lot like you did when you were around that age."

Alistair found himself at a loss for words, before he blithely inquired, "Does he? I think your memory is failing you in your old age, as I have it on excellent authority that when I was that young, I spent most of my time covered in mud."

The red-headed man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, "Indeed you did."

Teagan and the King went to the Arl's study again, to discuss the meetings with the banns from earlier in the day. Most wanted Alistair to come visit them at their homes, but as it was, he'd be at least one more month on the road before he made it back to Denerim. The planned visits to Lothering, the battle memorial at Ostagar, Gwaren and South Reaches left him little time to visit individual banns.

Of those, Gwaren would be the most trying stop along the road. Alistair had appointed Wulff, formerly the Arl of West Hill, as Gwaren's new Teyrn following Loghain's execution. It had been a tactical decision. Wulff was widely respected throughout Ferelden and everyone knew of his family's bravery in evacuating West Hill ahead of the Blight and the loss of his sons in the effort. However, most of the common folk from Loghain's former teyrnir had been fiercely loyal to the Hero of the River Dane. At times, Alistair suspected that being Maric's son was the only thing that kept the rough town from breaking into outright revolt. He certainly would not be receiving a warm welcome, at any rate.

The meeting ended as it had the previous night, with Kaitlyn bringing Bryce in to say goodnight. She gave the King a warm smile as she handed her son to Teagan, saying, "Your Majesty, remind me to tell Wynne that she is welcome to bring little Nathan with her any time she comes to see us. He is such a sweet boy, and Bryce simply adores him."

Chuckling, he said, "I will pass the word along," and felt the teeniest amount of pride that his son was well liked by those who met him.

Unfortunately his light mood faded the instant he walked out of the Arl's study because Violet and Penelope almost pounced at him, rather like a pair of dogs after a three-legged cat.

"Your Majesty, fancy seeing you here!" Penelope simpered, batting her eyelashes.

Alistair shot a glance at his guards. "Yes, it's quite the coincidence, running into you out here in the hall. Why, it's almost as though you were lying in wait for me," he drawled out and began to walk down the hall, the two noblewomen following close behind.

Penny had the presence to flush at his insinuation, but Violet was too stupid to recognize sarcasm because she giggled flirtatiously, "I know, what a stroke of luck!"

Tossing her brunette locks, Penelope said, "We were just on our way to the garden to do a little stargazing." She gasped suddenly as though a fantastic idea had suddenly come to mind and her chest heaved upwards, "Oh! Your Majesty, you should join us, we would love to have some company, wouldn't we, Violet?"

"Some company?" Alistair echoed, giving the two women a weak smile. "Er, well that's a very generous request but…" Anything else he was going to say faded into obscurity at the sight of Lyna's mabari hound bounding up the hallway coming straight toward them, his tongue lolling out in a happy canine grin.

Violet and Penelope squealed in unison and threw themselves at Alistair, clinging at his neck and shoulders and—Andraste's flaming knickers, did one of them just grope his rear end?—Bowen jumped up on him, the massive canine's weight enough to knock him back a step. The dog barked happily, licking his face with long swipes and wagging his stubby tail so hard his entire hindquarters shook as well.

The guards didn't seem to know who he needed more protection from, the dog or the two shrieking harpies clinging to him. "Bowen!" the King exclaimed with relief, rubbing the dog's head and ears just where he loved it the most. "Who's the cute puppy? Hmm? Who's the cute and adorable puppy?" The mabari danced on his hind legs, pawing at Alistair's chest and quite conveniently pushing both Penelope and Violet away from him in the process.

Lyna turned the corner of the hallway ahead, her eyes widening with feigned surprise when she saw them. "Your Majesty, I was just on my way to meet you and Wynne. I hope I haven't kept you waiting?" She gave a quick whistle and Bowen snuck in one last lick before hopping down and trotting back to her side.

"Not at all, I was on my way there now when Bowen ran into me. Quite literally, in fact," Alistair grinned. Apologetically, he said to the two girls, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on your suggestion for tonight as I have a previous obligation. Enjoy your stargazing though and have a lovely evening," he said, extricating himself the rest of the way from their grip.

Penny and Violet looked crushed, but what could they say? Both of them muttered goodnight and hurried off, readjusting their clothing and hair and giving Bowen a look of utter loathing as they left.

The elf watched as Alistair wiped his wet face off on his shirt sleeve. She walked closer, affectionately rubbing her hound's head with one hand before saying, "Remember back when you said the 'Get Alistair' command would never come in handy—that shows what you know."

"I also remember saying that you taught it to him because you have a warped sense of humor, and I'm quite certain I was right about that," he stated with a grin.

"Perhaps," she acknowledged, her pale green eyes bright with amusement.

Nathan was still awake when they reached Wynne's chamber, patiently waiting for his good night hugs from Alistair, who obliged the little boy, wrapping his arms around his small frame and kissing his forehead. "Good night, and sleep tight."

Then the child held out his arms for Lyna as well. She was startled by the gesture and hesitantly gave him a quick hug, then went so far as to call Bowen over too. "Sleep well, little one," she said, tucking the covers around his shoulders and then rose to her feet. As they left the room, her mabari planted himself right in front of Wynne's door and stretched out for a nap. The elf was quiet when they walked the short distance to Alistair's chambers. "He's so…" She paused, trying to think of an appropriate word.

"Trusting?" Wynne suggested, smiling. "I think the same thing when I watch him interact with others. In a way, it seems strange, given his treatment at the hands of others, but I suppose that in spite of what he's been through, like any child he still wants to be accepted and loved." The old mage made her way over to the same bench he and Lyna had sat on earlier and eased down onto the cushioned seat, turning to rest her staff against the wall. "Now then," she said calmly, peering up at Alistair. "It seems you have something important to tell me about Nathan?"

Even though Alistair suspected she knew something was up, her forthright words still caught him a bit off guard. He darted a quick look at Lyna and sat down beside her. "How did you know?"

She sighed, raising an eyebrow, "Because I'm old, not stupid. I can see it in your eyes when you look at him, that something's changed for both of you. I'm just not sure if it's good or bad news."

He raised his hands in helpless gesture, "I suppose that in a way, it's a little bit of both, strange as that sounds. Hm. How to say this…" his voice trailed off as he tried to muster his courage. Strange, he'd have thought it'd be easier to say it out loud the second time, but if anything it was even harder.

Wynne waited in silence, and when he still didn't speak she gave Lyna a questioning look. "Well? What is it?"

"No," she responded, shaking her head. "This is something he needs to tell you himself."

"Thanks for the support," Alistair said in a dry tone. "All right, then. About Nathan. See, here's the thing." He paused again, looking at the mage, who quirked one eyebrow at him and finally said in a rush of words, "Oh, blast it, Wynne, Nathan's my son. There, I said it. Now you know."

She stiffened at his words but her expression remained blank when she asked, "How do you know?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, not sure he'd heard her right

"I said, how do you know that Nathan is your son?" Wynne said, enunciating each word for added emphasis. "I'm sorry Alistair, this is hard for me to say, but are you sure this isn't a matter of you wanting a child so desperately that you are attaching the connection to the first convenient child to come along?"

His breath left him in a rush of air at her question, and felt his face reddening with heat and embarrassed anger. "That's not it at all," he grated, furious at the insinuation.

"Wynne, how could even think such a thing?" Lyna demanded.

The mage sat ramrod straight on the bench, saying, "You were not there when Chana and Mara died, Lyna. You did not see the extent of his grief the way I did." The words lashed out so forcefully that the elf recoiled, biting her lip in consternation. "It is a valid question, and Alistair knows it as well as I do."

"She's right," he responded, looking from Lyna to Wynne's stern face. "I did desperately want a child. An heir. Or I would not have gone through the whole bleeding ordeal of getting married in the first place. And then afterwards, when they died, it was a thousand times worse, because it seemed like I might never have one. So she is right in that regard." Alistair drew in a deep breath and said frankly, "If I were my father, or even Cailan, it'd be a very valid question, given what I know and have heard about their proclivities for tumbling serving girls and young noblewomen." He rubbed his hand over his face, and now the redness in his cheeks was due to nothing but embarrassment at what he was about to say. "Wynne, you know I was raised in the Chantry and then trained as a Templar. Until I met Lyna, I'd, uh, never… well, you know. Never…" his hand waved in a vague gesture.

"You were a virgin," Wynne nodded, as though this came as no surprise to her.

Alistair didn't have to look at Lyna to know she had to have been blushing as well. "Yes. That's exactly what I was. One of those." He cleared his throat and went on, "Look, what I'm trying to say is that in my entire life, I've … been… with only three women. Lyna, Chana and… Morrigan."

Wynne's blue eyes widened with surprise. "With Morrigan? But Alistair…Morrigan?" Her mouth opened and shut as she tried to get past her initial shock.

"I know," he said, hanging his head in self disgust.

"You _despised_ her."

"_I know!_"

No one said anything for a few moments as Wynne digested this new piece of information. "How could you? _Why_ would you?" she finally asked, shaking her head.

Straightening up, he darted a quick look at Lyna before turning toward the mage, explaining, "It was after the Landsmeet. We had all come back here to Redcliffe to muster the armies, and Riordan met us. That was the Senior Grey Warden we found in Howe's dungeons, if you'll recall. He told us that the Darkspawn armies had bypassed Redcliffe and were marching straight for Denerim, and that the Archdemon had shown itself. That we had to muster our armies and march on Denerim as quickly as possible, or the whole city would fall." He fell silent, not really sure where to go from there, or how exactly to explain more without lying outright, or telling half-truths.

"Riordan called us into his chambers," Lyna picked up where his story left off, twining one of her braids around her finger in a nervous gesture. "He was… very blunt about our odds, and how slim our chances of survival were." She turned away from them, her back tense as she shifted from one foot to the other. "There had been four other Blights, not a single one of which lasted for fewer than twelve brutal years." The elf Warden faced them again, her pale eyes shadowed. "Every single Blight only ended with the efforts of entire armies of Grey Wardens fighting alongside the other kingdoms of Thedas. Armies of Grey Wardens, Wynne. And here in Ferelden, we had three, two of which had not even been in the ranks for even a year."

Wynne pursed her lips, lifting her hand to rest along the edge of her jaw. "And let me guess. Morrigan had a plan to help."

Alistair grimaced, saying with difficulty, "She said that it was why she had agreed to come with us in the first place."

"She claimed to know a ritual that would dramatically increase our odds of surviving in the fight against the Archdemon, and by doing so, give us a chance, a real chance, to end the Blight," Lyna said flatly, looking the mage square in the eye as she spoke.

It wasn't quite a lie, but it toed the line so very closely that it couldn't be called the truth either.

"And of course, such a ritual did not come without a price, did it?" Wynne asked, giving Alistair a hard look.

"No, it didn't," he muttered, unwilling to meet her probing gaze.

"In exchange, she wanted a Grey Warden's child," Lyna said in a low voice. "Something I could not give her, even if I had wanted to."

Wynne leaned forward, rubbing her temples with her fingertips and said with weary disappointment, "Oh Alistair—what in the Maker's name were you thinking, agreeing to such a thing?"

Alistair wanted to say that it didn't seem like such a bad idea at the time, but that would have been a blatant lie. "I wanted the Blight to end and I wanted Lyna to live. Quite honestly, I didn't let myself think much beyond that."

"I'm as much to blame as he is, Wynne. I doubt he would have agreed to it if I hadn't talked him into it," she said, guilt darkening her features.

Exhaling, the mage straightened up to study the man at her side. "And you think Nathan is the product of your… union," she said distastefully.

"I do," Alistiar said and tried to explain, "The pieces just all fit together. He's the right age, he's got her hair but a mesh of our eyes. You remember how Teagan said he seemed familiar? He told me earlier that it was because Nathan looks exactly like I did when I was his age. Add in the dreams and Flemeth's interest in him and everything else…" he lifted his hands helplessly. "It just makes sense."

"Even the scars on his legs—Wynne, you know that the spider was one of Morrigan's favorite forms to take in battle," Lyna reminded her with a pained expression. "How else do you suppose he got them?"

Wynne's blue eyes flashed with anger and she stood up, stalking a few feet away before whipping around to say furiously, "You should have told me! You both should have said something—anything!—before it got to this point! The things she's done to that boy because of your negligence, the things you both let her do with the irresponsibility of your decisions! You knew better than to trust her! Both of you did!"

The harsh words hit Alistair with a force so strong that he doubled over, closing his eyes and holding his gut, feeling as though he'd just been kicked in the stomach. Wynne's scorn was well deserved, Maker knew he felt it himself. She had said nothing but the truth. He deserved this, not just for what he had done, but for what he didn't do as well.

Lyna hissed and moved to stand between them, cursing, "By the Tree, Wynne, do you think he hasn't been telling himself that since he found out the truth? Does it make you feel better to twist the knife a bit deeper? You told me once that our duty as Grey Wardens was to end the Blight. Well guess what, it ended before it ever even got started because of Alistair. It ended the instant he buried his sword in the top of the Archdemon's head. Do you think you've got a monopoly in doing the right thing, in always making the right decision and not having a single regret about the things you've done, the choices you've made? Because I seem to remember otherwise. We all make the wrong choice at one time or another. Don't go pointing out the splinter in his eye while ignoring the plank in your own," she sneered with her fists clenched at her sides.

He couldn't stand it anymore and lurched to his feet. "Stop it, please. Both of you. Just…enough, please," Alistair whispered wearily. Sighing, he met Wynne's eyes and each word he spoke hurt to say, "You are right. I should have known better. I should have tried to find her the moment the Archdemon died and believe me when I say that I will spend the rest of my life regretting the fact that I didn't try to find him sooner. I've already apologized to Nathan for it and now I'm apologizing to you as well. Trust me, you can't possibly beat me up any more about this than I'm already beating myself."

All of the anger drained out of the mage at his words and Wynne seemed more old and tired than he'd ever seen. She closed her eyes briefly and then opened them to look between the man and elf for a moment. Then she collected her staff from where she'd left it propped against the wall and used it as a walking stick, making her way to the door. Resting her hand on the doorknob, she paused and turned halfway to look at Lyna, admitting in quiet voice, "You are right, of course. There are things I've done that I regret." She seemed on the verge of adding more but merely shook her head, murmuring, "Good night," before she slipped out of the room.

"I suppose that went about as well as could be expected," Lyna said, turning back toward him. She studied his face and asked, "Are you all right?"

Alistair couldn't even muster the energy for lame humor. "Not really, no."

Tears suddenly glittered in her eyes and she slipped her arms around him, his own raising up to encircle her smaller frame and hold her close. They hugged each other in silence for a few long moments before he sighed and began to extricate himself from her grip, running his fingers through his hair. "I think I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."

She tilted her head upward to peer at him and frowned, "Actually, I do mind."

"What?"

"If you think I'm going to leave you here alone so you can indulge in even more self-flagellation, you're out of your mind," Lyna said, giving him a hard stare. "Enough is enough, Alistair."

Half-heartedly, he began, "I wasn't…" But of course, that was exactly what he'd planned on doing, and he knew it as well as she did.

"Yes you were." She hugged him even tighter and then poked him in the chest, "I'm going to stand right here until you cut yourself some slack."

Alistair couldn't help but laugh at her stubborn determination. "What if our legs get tired?"

To his surprise, Lyna began to push him toward the massive bed, and when the back of his legs bumped into the downy mattress, he balked. "I don't think…" he mumbled through numb lips. It was too much and too soon, and his mind was such a complete mess of emotions and thoughts right now that he couldn't possibly…

She pressed her fingers over his mouth to silence him, asking simply, "Do you trust me?"

It was a ridiculous question and he lifted his hand to draw hers away from his lips, confessing, "More than I trust myself."

Lyna climbed onto the bed and pulled him down with her. Together, they settled back, fully clothed right down to their boots, against the utterly ridiculous amount of fluffy pillows that were piled up at the head board. With a sigh, he lay against her, his cheek on her chest, ear over her heart. It was a rhythm ever unwavering and he let himself breathe its tattoo. She stroked his hair in silence and when he slipped into the Fade, he didn't dream.


	9. Its Hour Come Round

**_Chapter 8_**

The following morning Alistair woke up alone, disappointed though not really surprised. The pillow he found himself hugging served as a rather poor substitute for the real thing. He wasn't really sure how long she had been gone. If she had left a warm indentation on the bed, he suspected he had unconsciously moved into it when she left. He covered his face with the pillow to muffle a yawn and then tossed it aside, rolling out of bed.

He opened the door to his room to greet the on-duty guards and directed them to have servants draw water for a bath. While they filled the stone tub, he sat down at the desk and absently flipped through some paperwork as he thought about the events of the previous day, oblivious to their stares at the sight of him dressed in the rumpled clothing he'd worn from yesterday. A bath, shave and change of clothes helped him feel much better prepared to meet the day's challenges. He emerged from his room and though he was of half a mind to ask his guards what how long ago Lyna had slipped out of his chambers, he decided against it after seeing Welborne's vaguely disapproving expression. Merrill was as impassive as ever but no doubt he was curious as well. In the five years Alistair had ruled, he had never had a woman stay in his bedchambers overnight, not even the Queen. He had always gone to her rooms to consummate the duties of their marriage.

He'd only taken a few steps away from his door when he heard childish laughter, punctuated by happy barks, both of which heralded the arrival of Nathan. The boy rounded the corner of the corridor, running straight at him and being chased—or quite possibly herded—by Bowen. Nathan slammed into his thigh with a joyous 'oof' of sound and he barely had time to swing the child up and out of the way before the Mabari followed suit, causing him to stagger back a step.

Laughing, Alistair gave his son a quick hug and said, "Well good morning to both of you. If I wasn't already awake, I'd sure be awake now."

"Your Majesty!" A red-faced and winded Terrance drew up short at the sight of his charge in the King's arms. "I'm sorry, Sire, he and the dog were playing and then all of a sudden they both took off running. I should have been watching more closely. I won't let it happen again."

Shifting the child to hold against his hip, Alistair scratched the top of Bowen's broad head and then insistently pushed him down before looking at Terrance. The guardsman's nose was still a little swollen from a couple of mornings ago, but at least it wasn't broken. He had half a mind to say that Nathan's brief escape from guard was nothing to worry about, but the image of Flemeth the Dragon reared her ugly head and he was abruptly reminded why he'd assigned guards to the child in the first place. Instead, he said, "Just see that it doesn't."

The guard paled at his tone and squared his shoulder, stammering, "Y-yes, your Majesty. I will guard him as closely as I would my own brothers and sisters."

It would have to do. Remembering his own attempts at evading his guards from time to time, Alistair looked at Nathan. "And as for you, no running off and leaving your guard behind, or I'll assign more than just Tamara and Terrance to keep an eye on you." The little boy sighed and nodded his understanding, his lower lip jutting out in a small but obvious pout.

Bowen barked sharply, wagging his tail and his eyes bright with intelligence. "Oh, you think he needs another guard?" he asked, and the dog barked again, ducking his head before sitting and staring up at the man and child.

Merrill cleared his throat and said, "I believe Warden Commander Lyna's already commanded him to help guard the boy. I heard her say something along those lines to him when she left your room this morning." He gave a discrete cough and all three of the royal guards seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

"Oh," Alistair remarked, flushing even though he certainly had no reason to be embarrassed. Nothing had happened, for Andraste's sake! "Good boy, then." He gave the Mabari another pat on the head and Bowen stood up, panting with his mouth hanging open in a canine grin.

Nathan wrapped his thin arms around his father's neck, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Captain Lyndon told me that you came from quite a large family?" the King asked Terrance. "I think he said you had something like eleven siblings?

The guardsman seemed surprised by the question but said with pride, "Yes, Majesty. Actually, I have twelve brothers and sisters."

"Wait, there were thirteen of you all together?" Growing up alone and with no family, it was hard to comprehend living in a home with so many siblings. It had to be sheer insanity. "Maker's breath, that's a one big family. You'll have to introduce me sometime," he said without really thinking about it.

Terrance's jaw went slack. "You want to meet my family?"

Alistair hesitated. He knew he should probably retract the request but he really was curious to see what a family that had so many children was like. "Actually, yes I would, especially if you ever get them all together at the same time, that is. I imagine you're not the only one who's old enough to have moved out, are you? You're from the South Reaches arling, aren't you? Perhaps we can stop by when we're there in a couple of weeks."

The young guard still looked like he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the King of Ferelden wanted to meet his family. "Yes, Sire. My fa is the blacksmith. Made me my first sword when I was no older than Nathan there," he gestured at the little boy.

Nathan's arms tightened around him in a final hug before he began to squirm, wanting down. Alistair set him on the floor, chucking him a touch under the chin with his knuckles. "You're ready to spend a long day playing with Bryce now, aren't you?" Grinning at the boy's immediate nod, he straightened and his eyes drifted to the closed door midway down the hall. Gesturing at the door, he asked, "Where's Wynne this morning?"

"She said she was feeling a bit under the weather and would likely be spending most of the day in her room," Terrance answered, though his attention was on Nathan as the child rubbed Bowen's ears before walking over to slip his hand in the guard's. "Ready to go find Bryce then?" When he got a nod as an answer, the young man bowed, "If you'll excuse us, your Majesty," and led the boy away, the Mabari hound following behind.

He briefly debated knocking on Wynne's door but decided against it. The surprises from yesterday were a lot of information to digest. He had little doubt that when she was ready to talk again, or lecture as it were, she would seek him out. Most likely, she'd grab his ear at a time when Lyna wasn't around to intervene. Sighing with resignation, he went on down to the dining hall to grab something to eat.

Wynne reappeared at lunch but her face was drawn with that same weariness that had strained it since last night. Bayard, Kaitlyn and Teagan both noticed the change in her demeanor but when they expressed concern, she waved her hand and said she was just feeling her age. It was an evasive response that didn't offer much of an opening for more questions. She remained somewhat distant from everyone over the next two days that the royal party wound down its visit to Redcliffe before preparing to go on the road again. A lot of time was spent in her room though she emerged for meals and would sit with Nathan and Bryce as they played together to give Kaitlyn a bit of a rest. Many noblewomen used nursemaids for such things but Kaitlyn had been a commoner and as such, was determined that she and Teagan be the ones to raise young Bryce.

He saw a lot more of Lyna during that time frame. She and her two Warden recruits joined in the morning sparring Alistair and the royal guards did in the courtyard. He'd forgotten how quick and nimble she was with her blades and she quite cheerfully reminded him when they dueled. Of course, he gave as good as he got with Starfang and shield, and when Lyndon finally called it a draw they were both breathless, but grinning at each other none the less.

In the evening, he made it a point to go to the Warden's Rest Tavern and Lyna and the Wardens all accompanied him, much to the dismay of Captain Lyndon. The captain hated it when his liege went tavern-hopping. If he had it his way, they'd close down the bar completely and do body checks on everyone who was allowed to go in. There was no way to protect him in such a casual atmosphere and the King was little help, because he wouldn't let them maintain a safe cordon around him. "What's the point of me trying to mingle with the commoners if I'm not actually allowed to do the mingling part?" Alistair had demanded, brushing aside his guard captain's concerns before going inside. It wasn't the first time he'd said it and wouldn't be the last.

Bella had done well for herself since taking over the establishment and still kept Lloyd on as the bartender. Drinks were on the house for the King and Wardens but he had learned long ago not to get too far into his cups and settled for doing little more than wetting his upper lip with the frothy brews without actually drinking more than a couple of swallows. Even so, the Fereldens who happened to be in the bar at the time were thrilled to be rubbing elbows and sharing drinks with the King, not to mention the much vaunted Hero of Ferelden herself. The recruits, Kendrin and Jameson, were unused to the endless supply of alcohol and got utterly smashed. To his surprise, Fiona had come along as well though she sat at the end of the bar, watching both Alistair and Lyna reminisce with some former militia about the battles fought at Redcliffe and later at Denerim.

When they left, Lyndon was a nervous wreck and had taken to just resting his hand on his sword and glaring at anyone who came close, for all the good that did. The royal guards Canfield and Welborne were commandeered into helping the recruits make it back up to their room to the castle.

Lyna, Fiona and Alistair were walking up the long hall toward their rooms, and when they reached the t-shaped corridor where they would part ways for the evening, Fiona said, "Good night." She'd taken half a step away from them and then paused, turning back to look up at him as she haltingly added, "You… are not what I expected. And that's not a bad thing, I've decided." The elf mage had walked off before he could even formulate a reply.

Alistair looked at Lyna and was pretty sure her confused expression mirrored his own. "What was that all about? Did I miss something?"

"I have no idea," she responded, mystified. "On the way here, she said she didn't really want to know anything about you, that she wanted to form her own opinion after meeting you. Since we've been here though, it seems as though you're all she wants to talk about. She wants to know about what kind of man you are, what it was like to travel with you and fight at your side, how good a King I think you are, that kind of stuff."

"Maybe the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt are wondering about how I'm serving as King while still being a Warden. Wardens are supposed to remain neutral in matters of politics, you know," he suggested thoughtfully.

She gave a derisive snort. "They'd do well to follow their own advice, if that's the case. King Knud of the Anderfels is utterly useless. All he does is flutter his hands helplessly and wait for the Wardens at the castle to tell him what to do. And they seem to enjoy their control over him."

"Knud. What a terrible name. May as well call him King Dude," Alistair commented, wrinkling his nose. He thought about what she'd said regarding Fiona and cleared his throat before asking in a soft voice meant for her ears only, "So how much did you tell her about traveling with me? Did you tell her about, you know, us?" and felt his ears redden.

"No, I didn't tell her how close we were," she said, looking up at him. "Though I think she's got her suspicions anyway. She spends a lot of time watching people, and I get the sense that she doesn't miss much." Lyna gave a slight smile, "Hiding your feelings has never been one of your strong points."

He chuckled at that, "Eamon and Wynne take every opportunity to remind me of that, actually. I've gotten better at it though, don't you think? So then, with that in mind, how do you think I'm doing as King?" and squared his shoulders as though readying himself for a physical blow. "Seriously, now. Go ahead and lay it on me, I'm a big boy, I can take the heat."

"Well, better than Knud, that's for sure."

"Ouch, that bad? That's not saying much, you know," he accused.

Lyna laughed at that, her pale green eyes bright with amusement. "True enough." The smile fell away from her face and she studied him before she spoke, "I think you've made a fine king, so far. People believe that your rulings are focused on doing what's best for all of Ferelden, instead of playing favorites to particular nobles. Commoners adore you, but I'm pretty sure you knew that. You play dumb around the nobles a bit too much and you've a tendency to put too much responsibility in Eamon's hands instead of dealing with it yourself but when it comes down to making an important decision, when you put your foot down your word is final and that's that, there's no swaying you." She paused and added thoughtfully, "You should put your foot down more often."

Alistair tensed when she began to speak. No other opinion mattered more to him than hers and it was a relief to hear that she seemed to approve of his rule so far. "My foot has gained a permanent twitch from trying to resist the urge to give some of those nobles a quick kick in the pants, especially Bann Ceorlic," he confessed with exaggerated levity. "When they get to nattering at each other, I keep hoping they'll work things out among themselves without my getting involved. You can pretty much guess how well that goes."

"If you made abrupt and firm rulings that favored neither party when they draw you into such trivial matters," she pointed out, "they'd be more inclined to solve their petty disagreements without involving you and take more care to bring only major issues that neither side could compromise on to your attention." Inclining her head, she said, "Not that I'm trying to tell you how to rule Ferelden, but that's how the Keeper decided matters amongst the Dalish, and I've adopted similar methods as Warden Commander of Amaranthine. It ends up saving a lot of time and headache."

It did make sense, when he thought about it. That was one of the things he despised, that the nobles seemed to want his opinion on so many insignificant things. "Hm. I shall take your words into consideration." When she lifted an eyebrow at his inadvertently formal tone, he added in a lighter voice, "Though I will, of course, keep my idea regarding kicking them in the pants as a backup plan."

Lyna laughed, "Very well, my liege." She looked down the hall and then back at him, "I suppose I had better go check on Kendrin and Jameson. I imagine they'll be regretting their revelry during training in the morning."

"When were you planning on doing the Joining ceremony?" he asked. At some point, she'd need to take the two out to get the fresh darkspawn blood they'd need for the ritual, but he had little doubt that she'd prefer to do the Joining away from Redcliffe.

She hesitated a moment before lifting her chin, "I've been meaning to talk with you about that, actually. Bayard mentioned that you were intending to head through Lothering and down to Ostagar before you go to Gwaren? Would you mind if we traveled with you?"

"You needn't even ask," he responded with a grin and was inordinately pleased by her request, practical as it was. He was all for anything that prolonged the amount of time he got to spend with her. "The more the merrier, I always say. We'll need two more horses, though I'm sure Teagan won't mind if we borrow them from his stable. We leave the day after tomorrow, in case you hadn't heard."

"Good. I'll tell the others to prepare," she nodded.

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment until it was broken by the creak of metal over leather when one of his guards shifted position from somewhere behind him. Alistair finally said, "Well then. I…Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Lyna echoed.

Neither of them moved. When she quirked an eyebrow at him, he cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "I'll just, you know, be heading to my room." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate it, and then regretted the gesture, it wasn't like she didn't know, she'd been in there half the night before. The problem was that he wanted her to join him in there tonight. And the next night. And in his tent on the road, since he was on that thread.

Of course she wasn't going to let that lame gesture slide. "Is that where it is? I'd already forgotten," she teased. His witty response fluttered away when she took two quick steps toward him, resting one hand on his chest as she tiptoed and brushed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Sleep well," she murmured, adding a quiet, "Good night," for the guards as well before she slipped down the hall and into one of the rooms.

* * *

The following morning, Alistair was in the process of pulling a clean tunic over his head when there was a tentative knock at the door. "Just a moment," he called, his voice muffled by the fabric. He finished jerking it the rest of the way on and was walking toward the door when it opened. Nathan ran in, literally leaping up into his arms and laughed with delight as he was swung around in a circle. "Good morning! How're you today?" he asked the little boy.

Nathan didn't say anything, just grinned and hugged him as an answer, conveying the notion that he was doing quite well.

Wynne entered the room too, lines of weariness still etched in her aged face, but even so, she had a bit of a smile on her face as she watched the two. "Good morning, your Majesty," she greeted him formally.

"Good morning, Wynne," he returned, wondering if his voice sounded as uncertain as he felt. They'd barely exchanged two words with each other since the evening he'd told her the truth about Nathan's parentage, edited though it had been. The King looked between the boy and mage and asked, "Were you taking him down for breakfast?"

The old mage paused a moment and then said in a subdued voice, "Actually, I was going to let Tamara see to that. I was wondering if I could speak with you in private."

"Of course," he said, carrying Nathan over to the door and opening it. Tamara was waiting just outside and the King passed his son to the guardswoman, saying, "We'll be down shortly." After closing the door, he turned and went back over to Wynne, who was standing exactly where he had left her, stiffly formal. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the settee.

Shaking her head, Wynne said, "No thank you. For this, I prefer to stand," and inhaled and exhaled a long slow breath before speaking again. "I wanted to apologize to you for the things I said the other night. While it may not be unusual for me to speak my mind, especially to you, many of the things I said were cruel. Deliberately so at times, I am ashamed to admit."

He gave her a weak smile and pointed out, "Just because they were cruel didn't make them any less true, when you get right down to it. There were consequences for what I did, the choices I made." Turning away from her, he walked over to the settee and sank down onto it, "It's just that I should have been the one to suffer the effects of it though, not Nathan."

After a moment, she made her way over to sit down beside him. "Even so, it was unfair to blame you for her deeds. The things that Morrigan did to him—her own son, for Andraste's sake!—are unthinkable! Not even I would ever imagine that she'd be driven to such a despicable act," she seethed furiously and drew in a few quick breaths to calm her ire. It was a long moment before she could trust herself to speak again, and she confessed, "To be honest, it hurt my feelings as well. That you did not seem to trust me enough to tell me about something so important until you had no other choice in the matter."

"It wasn't that I was deliberately trying to keep it a secret from you so much as I was trying not to think about doing it—_that_ especially—with her at all. I'd done my damndest to completely blot the whole thing out of my mind." Alistair rested his elbows on his knees, knitting his fingers together and staring down at his hands. "You had the right of it though. I knew she couldn't be trusted. We all knew."

Wynne rested her hand on his forearm to draw his attention and when he looked at her, she said, "If I can't imagine that she'd have done such things, there's no way you could have either. Don't torture yourself over the things you didn't do when you could be focusing on every precious moment of time you have with him from here on out."

"Is that your official advice given in your capacity as the Senior Court Mage of Ferelden?" he asked, mustering a smile from somewhere.

"No," she shook her head. "Those are the official words of the wise from a very dear friend of yours, if you're still willing to have me as one that is."

He made an exasperated sound and shifted on the couch to give her a hug. "I really do think you're getting senile in your old age, saying such ridiculous things."

The mage's laughter was muffled against his shoulder, and she returned his embrace before withdrawing to recompose herself. "Perhaps." She gave him a warm smile, "I was right, by the way. You are making a good, loving father. Nathan is very lucky to have found you."

Alistair grinned, "Thank you. This is likely to be my one and only chance at it, and I'm determined to get it right the first time. Now what would be really handy would be if he could help me find Morrigan the same way he found me. I've got a few choice words I'd like for her to hear," he stated with bitter amusement.

The smile faded from her lips and worry flickered in her blue eyes. Her aged face may as well have been set in stone as she said sharply, "You must never ask him to do that for you, Alistair. Not under any circumstances, do you understand me?"

He was taken aback by her sudden shift in mood. "And why not? Don't you think she deserves to be punished for what she's done to him?"

"Of course I do, don't be an idiot," Wynne waved her hand with a dismissive gesture. "Just don't use Nathan as a tool to help you achieve that goal, is all I'm saying." Sighing, she tried to explain, "If you did that, you would force him to betray his own mother, and no matter what she's done to him, believe me when I tell you this, he still loves her unconditionally, as any other four-year-old would love their mother, in spite of her flaws."

Rising to his feet, he ran his fingers through his hair in a quick frustrated gesture and demanded, "So what, I'm just supposed to leave her be? Live and let live, after the monstrous things she's done to him? I can't do that. Not as a father or as a king."

"I'm not saying that at all," she said, standing up as well. "I'm just saying don't turn your son's gifts into a tool of vengeance. Find her by other means. Or let her find you," she amended with a wave of her hand. "I'm sure she's been looking for him since the moment she realized he had slipped her grasp. It's quite possible she already knows he's in your care and is simply waiting for an opportune moment to swoop down and carry him away."

His jaw clenched at that suggestion. "Yes, swooping is bad. And I've no intention of letting her swoop anywhere near him."

* * *

Of course, her words came to him later during lunch. It was a beautiful spring day with nary a cloud in the sky. Lady Kaitlyn had come up with the bright idea of letting the boys have a picnic in the garden instead of eating in the dining hall for their last afternoon together.

Alistair eyed a distant bird circling in the sky above and Wynne came over to stand beside him, lifting her hand to block out the sun as she squinted at the black speck. "You know, when I said that thing about her swooping down, I was being more figurative than literal, right?" she commented, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Well, she _is_ a shapeshifter, you know," he reminded her almost sulkily. "That could be her."

Their birdwatching drew the attention of both Lyna and Fiona, who joined them.

"What exactly are we all looking at, here?" Lyna asked after a moment and looked upward as well in curiosity.

Fiona studied the black dot, her sharp elvish eyes able to pick out details too fine for a human to see. "A hawk. With black bars on its wings and a yellow stripe on its tail."

"Hm. So it is," the other Warden agreed, peering at the raptor. "I've seen that particular type of hawk many times. They're quite common in Ferelden, as far as birds of prey go."

"Alistair worries that it might be Morrigan," Wynne informed her.

Lyna's eyes widened. "Oh." She eyed the hawk more carefully, "If it is, we'd have no way of knowing one way or the other. How do you know it's her?"

He protested, "I never said that it _was _actually her. I just said that it _could _be. She is a shapeshifter, so it's not unreasonable to think that she might take the form of a hawk, or a frog, or any other animal that struck her fancy."

"A shapeshifter?" Fiona said with surprise. "By all the accounts I read at Weisshaupt, that particular school of magic went extinct centuries ago."

"Not quite. A few linger here and there, hedge mages and witches for the most part. One of our traveling companions during the Blight had the gift. It came in handy at times," Wynne admitted with grudging respect.

The elf mage studied the trio of grim faces and observed, "I take it that she's fallen out of favor in the time since the Archdemon was slain?"

"You could say that," Alistair growled, rubbing his neck to get the crick out as he diverted his attention from the hawk to Nathan. The two boys were both crouched down and staring intently at a row of plantings. Remembering his own forays into the garden as a youngster, he strongly suspected that either bugs or worms were the reason for their complete focus. Neither would be in short supply.

Kaitlyn was reclining against Teagan's chest, watching the children with an indulgent smile. The Arl leaned down to whisper something in her ear and she stifled a giggle and then poked him in the arm in retaliation for his words.

Alistair looked away, finding himself almost jealous of their easy comfort with one another. It had been a long time since he'd been able to indulge in moments like that. His gaze settled on Lyna and a wistful sigh escaped him. Things had been so much less complicated between them during the Blight, which was rather backwards when he thought about it. One would think times of peace would lend themselves better to such occasions.

"What did she do?" Fiona was asking Lyna.

The Warden Commander flicked a quick glance at Alistair as seeking his permission to divulge details of Morrigan's wrongs, and he lifted one shoulder in response, leaving the decision up to her. Shifting her attention back to Fiona, she said in a low voice "She's Nathan's mother."

Fiona's dark eyes sharpened. "She's the reason for all the scars on his legs?" When the others looked surprised by her knowledge, her smile was tight as she said, "I watch and I listen. It's surprising, the things you can learn from servant gossip," then directed a knowing look at the other two Wardens.

Alistair flushed in reaction, remembering what Lyna had said the night before about the mage already suspecting the nature of their prior relationship. He suddenly wondered if any servants had seen her leaving his room the other night and had a sneaking suspicion the answer to that question was a resounding 'yes'. No doubt they'd drawn their own conclusions, right or wrong, as to what had happened behind closed doors.

A polite cough emanated from Wynne, who then nodded, "Yes. There's no other logical explanation for them that we can discern."

"What kind of mother would use her own child for blood magic?" the petite mage demanded.

Lyna grimaced, "You never met her, so I can't really explain it any better than that. During our travels, we got to know each other a little, though we were never what I'd call close. Still, it seems extreme even for her."

"And the father? Where was he when all of this was going on? Looking the other way?"

The question was out there and so unexpected that no one had even considered evasive ways to answer it. Wynne's lips tightened and Lyna's eyes flashed with anger, but before either of them could say a word, Alistair said quietly, "I was right here. Being the King of Ferelden." His gaze darted over to Teagan and Kaitlyn but they were so focused on each other it was obvious that neither one had heard what was being said. "I had no idea what she was doing—or that I even had a son—until a few days ago, but that doesn't absolve me of guilt or make me any less implicit in what's been done." He met Fiona's shocked gaze and his lips twisted with sardonic amusement. "I suppose that pedestal you had me on just crumbled to dust, didn't it? If you ladies would excuse me?"

Turning, he walked away from them so he didn't have to listen to them talk about it anymore, since it seemed like they'd done little else for two days. The guard Tamara was standing beside a vine-covered trellis watching the boys play a few feet away and Alistair made his way over to where she was to ask, "Are we having fun?"

"We are playing with worms, your Majesty," Tamara returned stoically. He suspected she would have used the exact same tone were she being debriefed or tortured.

"Well then, that's definitely a yes, isn't it?" He thought he saw her lips twitch and grinned with satisfaction. Remembering how upset the guardswoman had been at her 'reassignment', the King said more seriously, "Tamara, you know I would not have asked you and Terrance to do this if it hadn't been so important to me, right?"

Her alert gaze swung away from the children meet his as she answered, "It is precisely because it _is_ so important to you that it is important to me, Majesty." Ducking her head a touch, she returned to watching Nathan and Bryce and amended, "To both of us."

The guardswoman's initial choice of words came across as so personal, it caught him off guard. _Did she mean…?_ He thought to himself and studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight forward, looking utterly focused on her duty as Nathan's bodyguard, but there was a faint hint of redness darkening her cheeks. "Thank you," he said, not really knowing what else to say.

Tamara gave a quick nod but didn't speak, keeping her expression aloof.

Alistair stood in silence beside her, peering over the garden. Lyna, Fiona and Wynne still had their heads lowered in quiet conversation, so he had no interest in wading back into that mire. An excited exclamation from Bryce drew his attention and curiosity compelled him to go see what new creepy crawly they had discovered now. He came up behind the pair and crouched down to their level. "Did you find anything interesting?"

The children grinned in turn, their hands, faces and clothes all dirt streaked from their post lunchtime play. Bryce raised his grubby hand to show off his find while Nathan watched. A small green caterpillar inched its way across his hand, pausing now and again to raise the front half of its body up and look around, no doubt in search of the plant it had been plucked from. The little red headed boy giggled and said, "It tickles!"

"Does it?" Alistair exclaimed with feigned surprise. "Let me feel," he said and put his hand alongside Bryce's much smaller one when the caterpillar started crawling again. He could just feel the pull of the thing's sticky feet as it crossed from the child's hand to his own. "It does tickle a bit, doesn't it? You two know what this will turn into when it gets a bit older, right?"

Bryce frowned uncertainly but Nathan exclaimed, "Butterfly!" beaming up at Alistair before moving his own hand over for the caterpillar to walk onto.

"That's right," the King said, tousling his son's head after the small green creature exchanged ownership again. He was reminded of that day on the road from Orzammar when he'd first seen the little boy, kneeling down, his smock filthy but his face bright with excitement as he showed off his prize to the stunned man. 'Butterfly' had been the first word he'd ever heard the boy say.

Bryce suddenly gasped and leapt to his feet, pointing across the garden. "Lookit! A butterfly!"

The large blue and black butterfly wafted closer on its delicate iridescent wings as though it'd been summoned straight out of his memory. Casting a quick glance down at Nathan, he saw the boy was studying the caterpillar in his hand. The child reached out and trailed his small fingertip gently down the worm-like back, almost as though he were petting it.

Kaitlyn and Teagan both laughed when Bryce giggled and began chasing the fluttering insect around the garden, leaping up into the air trying to catch it with his hands. "That'll never work, Bryce," his mother called. "If you want to catch a butterfly, you have to let them come to you by standing perfectly still. Hold your hand out so it's got a place to land."

The little red haired boy gave his mother a dubious look but stopped to stand still, stretching out both of his small arms for good measure, providing a maximum amount of room for the butterfly to land on. He inhaled with anticipation when it winged closer, dipping in erratic flight down right in front of his face.

"Now you've got him, Bryce," Alistair whispered loudly at the youngster, "Just stay still!" The child gave a quick jerk of a nod, which startled the blue and black insect into fluttering further away. Nathan stood up to watch as well, turning his hand over as the caterpillar continued to crawl over the edge of his dirty palm.

Of course, few three year olds are content to remain still for long, and Bryce was starting to pout with disappointment when the butterfly changed course and dropped down, landing on his forearm. The boy beamed, his entire body stiff with restrained excitement.

"Butterfly," Nathan said again with happiness, watching his friend.

"Yep," the King agreed, and then he saw another flicker of blue from the corner of his eye. It was another butterfly, identical to the first, winging its way over the garden wall. A moment later, two more appeared, and then a few more, until there were a dozen or so of the delicate insects, all dancing in the air around Bryce. One by one they landed on him, to his delight, one even perching on the top of his head.

"More!" the little boy demanded, quivering with delight and suddenly there were more—a lot more—black and blue butterflies pouring over the high stone wall encircling the garden. There had to be scores of them, or more like hundreds, all darting and diving in a loose maelstrom that Bryce stood in the middle of, and he was loving every minute of it, laughing with joy, his chin uplifted to watch them fly all around him.

"Teagan?" Kaitlyn said, starting to get alarmed by the sight of her young son surrounded by a virtual whirlwind of gossamer wings.

"Easy, they're just butterflies," he said, but rose to his feet anyway, his eyes wary.

Lyna, Fiona and Wynne had stopped their quiet discussion and were watching in amazement. "They must be migrating?" Wynne suggested, her blue eyes wide and uncertain.

"I've never seen so many, not of this kind," Lyna said in a low voice.

Alistair gaped for a moment and then glanced down at Nathan. The little boy was grinning with pride and satisfaction as he watched his only friend's jubilant reaction to the sight and feel of so many butterflies encircling him and instinctively, the King realized his son had something to do with the dancing, fluttering display. Crouching down, he did his best not to draw the attention of anyone else as he rested his hand on the boy's thin shoulder and said very quietly, "That's enough, Nathan."

The boy's smile faltered and he looked at his father, biting his lip with worry.

"It's all right," Alistair said. "It's just time to let them go back home or wherever it is they came from."

Nathan gave him a shaky nod, and the amassed butterflies began to veer away from Bryce in a fluttering stream of blue and black, flowing over the stone wall. A few moments they were out of sight, all save one—the first one that had appeared—that finally launched itself skyward from the child's arm and made its way across the garden with lazy wingflaps. The insect paused to land on a budding flower, sipping up a bit of nectar before continuing on its way until it too was gone.

"Wow did you see that?!" Bryce's excited shout broke the uneasy silence and he ran over to throw himself into his relieved mother's arms. "That was the bestest thing ever!" he said and began chattering non stop about how incredible the whole experience had been.

Taking care to release the green caterpillar he was still holding onto a leaf frond, Nathan then turned and gave Alistair a tight hug.

The King released a long breath he hadn't even realized he was holding as he returned the embrace. Lifting his head, his eyes landed upon Tamara. Everyone else in the garden had been focused on the amazing sight of so many butterflies swirling all around. The guardswoman's training, however, dictated that she be focused on her charge and judging from the perplexed expression on her face as she regarded Nathan, she had seen and heard everything.

"Bryce is probably beside himself wanting to tell you about what it felt like to have the attention of so many butterflies," the King said to Nathan and indeed, the red-headed little boy was squirming out of his mother's embrace to reach his friend. Nathan gave him a tentative smile and slid down to the ground to join the younger child.

Watching him go, Alistair edged back over to Tamara's side. He happened to glance skyward and saw that the hawk was circling directly above the castle, though it was even higher up now than it had been when he first saw it. They stood together in silence, listening to everyone else chatter about the unusual migration they had just witnessed, that conclusion drawn courtesy of Wynne.

"So. 'Certain characteristics', you said?" Tamara said in a bland tone, repeating the deliberately vague words that he had used when explaining exactly why Flemeth would be interested a child like Nathan.

Wincing, Alistair allowed, "That may have been a poor choice of words. 'Gifts' is slightly more accurate."

Inclining her head, the guardswoman was solemn when she said, "I see. And since I doubt that Flemeth intends to overwhelm Ferelden with flocks of butterflies…."

"Rabbles," he interjected without thinking about it.

"Excuse me?"

Gesturing with one hand, he explained, "Not flocks of butterflies. Rabbles of butterflies. A group of butterflies is called a rabble. You'd think it'd be something that made more sense, like perhaps a flutter of butterflies, or something along those lines. I've read that they are sometimes referred to as a swarm, though that tends to refer more to bugs in general instead of one specific type and…"

"Your Majesty, you are babbling," Tamara interrupted him before he really got going.

"Ahem. Yes, so I was." He inhaled and exhaled, trying to slow his racing thoughts. It worked to an extent, well enough for him to say, "No. I'm pretty sure that whatever Flemeth has in mind, it's got nothing to do with butterflies."

"Hmm." She made a noncommittal sound and gave the boy a speculative look. "So he has other 'characteristics' that she must find interesting, then."

Alistair shrugged. "Yes, we believe so, but we're not one hundred percent sure, to be honest. Hints of certain immunities. But just that, hints. The only thing we know for certain is that he is immune to healing magic."

Tamara drew in a slow breath. "That is an unsettling thought. So if he is injured, Wynne wouldn't be able to heal him?"

"No," he answered bleakly. "That we do know for sure. We're just not sure if that resistance to healing magic extends to include all magic, for good or bad. And it's not a theory we're willing to test. The rest is, well, speculation at best." Alistair grinned, thinking about their suspicions regarding the child's invulnerabilities and gave her a sidelong glance, "If we're right though, guarding him will be the easiest job you've ever had."

She glanced at him, arching one eyebrow. "I don't suppose his Majesty would care to elaborate?"

He thought about it for a moment and shook his head. "No, he doesn't. Let me know if you notice anything, well, out of the ordinary. Or extraordinary, for that matter. I think it best that we learn more by observation, rather than speculation."

"His Majesty is too kind," Tamara grumbled.

The picnic came to an end a short time later and they all went inside for the afternoon. By that time, the hawk had receded to a distant speck in the eastern sky. It folded its wings and began to angle downward, faltering momentarily when a sudden upsurge in the winds aloft buffeted it with surprising force. Instead of letting the breeze push it along, the bird headed straight into the airstream, flying westward and back toward Redcliffe. The closer to the treetops it flew, the less of an effect the wind had but it did not seem to matter. The raptor's mouth still gaped half open with the effort to stay airborne and the broad black-banded wings beat more and more raggedly until finally it dove down and landed on the grounds in a small clearing.

No sooner had the taloned feet gripped the ground than its form shimmered and expanded, and where a hawk once stood now crouched a woman with fierce golden eyes and a staff clutched in her hand, hunched and every muscle in her body shaking with complete exhaustion.

It had been eight long days since Morrigan had woken up alone in that rickety shack and realized the child was nowhere to be seen. At first, she thought he might have been hiding and called for him repeatedly. When she found his tracks leading down to the river though, she felt a burgeoning feeling of dread in her chest. She searched up and down river for hours, looking for any sign of him. The further she got from the hut, the more she had to widen her search range, and even tracking across the land in wolf form she had been unable to find any trace of where he had left the stream, or even if he had left the stream.

The longer she went without finding a sign of his passage, the more helpless and desperate she felt, and they were two emotions the witch despised with every fiber of her being. Finally she had discovered his tracks by the river bank more than eighty miles away from where he had entered the river. His spoor went up the riverbank to the road connecting Orzammar to the rest of Ferelden before it was lost again, this time amid the tracks of animals and humans and dwarves. She could tell that for a short time, he had walked along the road toward the dwarven city, but he had also walked south toward Gherlen's Pass as well. Precious time had been wasted when she went to Orzammar first, and when she had heard of Alistair's recent visit to the city, she started to worry. What were the odds of the two meeting?—but that was an utterly ridiculous question to ask when dealing with a child who possessed the spirit of an Old God.

Travelling south toward the Imperial Highway, the child's scent seemed to be clustered with Alistair and Wynne's familiar spoor as well in a campsite right by the river at Gherlen Pass, a place that she had inadvertently bypassed to her frustration and dismay, so focused was she on searching the road. The King of Ferelden's travel plans were not much of a secret so Morrigan journeyed on to Redcliffe. After eight days of searching for the child without rest, pausing only to eat and drink, expending all of her precious power to sustain her shape and strength for so long and when she finally found the boy, he was with _him_. If she could have mustered the strength to kill that ungrateful buffoon, she would have done it right then and there, but it was all she could do to stay in the air.

She'd never liked him, not from the moment they'd met nearly six years previous at those Grey Warden ruins near Ostagar, but over the years, dislike had twisted into something far more malevolent. The sight of Alistair and his precious Lyna together, when one or perhaps even both of them would not even be _alive_ were it not for her intervention, had rubbed salt in the wound. And all she had asked of him in return was to simply be left alone to raise the child however she saw fit, and the interfering moron could not even do that.

The child was hers, and hers alone. Without him, she would be reduced to feeling the corrosive taint eating away at her body and mind until nothing remained—nothing human, anyway. And the boy himself, smiling more in the brief time she had watched him with her hawk form's sharp vision than he had during the entire four years he'd been with her, laughing and playing with Teagan's whelp, the way he sought out that blond idiot king's affection… The betrayal was surprisingly painful, especially after all she had done for him and how much she had suffered. Were it not for her, he would no longer even exist! Yet this was how he repaid her for the multitude of sacrifices she had endured on his behalf.

Morrigan needed to rest and regain her strength before she wrested the child from Alistair's grasp again. With Wynne and Lyna present, the endeavor would be all the more difficult, but the godblood still pulsed in her veins. Her current state of physical and mental exhaustion subdued its potency, but on the morrow after a full night's rest, it would be restored and she would reclaim that which was hers.

The witch quickly made camp, swallowing down a few bites of dried meat and fruit. Then she mustered the last of her energy reserves to set a protective ward around herself and then eased down on her bedroll to sleep.

It seemed she had barely closed her eyes before she was in the Fade, the Black City looming ominously in the distance. The hazy glow of a campfire shone near and she made her way toward it, pausing when she saw the distinctly familiar figure tending the two rabbits roasting on a spit over the flames.

"Come join me for supper, Child," Flemeth invited.

Over the past six years, Morrigan had seen her mother in the Fade more times than she cared to remember, but she instinctively knew that this dream was more than just a dream. "Hello, Mother," she said, claiming a seat on one of the logs beside the fire.

The old woman gave a soft cackle, her mad eyes gleaming in the low light. "You always were my favorite daughter, did you know that? So sharp of wit and tongue! You remind me so much of myself!"

Sniffing, Morrigan gripped her staff in her hand. "Your favorite daughter. Of how many?"

"Too many to count, and none of them is alive to matter, regardless." Flemeth waved her hand, sending out a gust of cold air at the rabbits to cool them enough to eat and then pulled one of the hindlegs free with a crunch of bone. She bit into the meat greedily, grease and juices dribbling out the side of her mouth as she went on, "You did well, girl. Better than even I could have anticipated. I've been waiting for this day for a very long time," she said, giving her daughter a predatory smile.

_So my turn has finally come round,_ Morrigan thought to herself when she saw that smile. "You should have expected no less of me, dear Mother, but you will not find me to be as easy to push aside as my 'sisters' have been," she said sharply, rising to her feet.

Flemeth laughed outright at her open defiance, tearing the last chunk of meat off of her meal and chewing it as she threw the bone over her shoulder. "What a vessel you shall make for me, Child!" she crowed with glee, licking her greasy fingers with her tongue. "And with Urthemiel's blood coursing through my veins, I shall be a Goddess, the likes of which Thedas has never seen before!"

With a swift gesture of her hands, Morrigan drew at her power but resulting surge was so weak it was all but ineffectual. Fighting down rising panic, she cast her will forth again to pull from that vast pool of godchild energy but it slid and danced just out of her reach, as though she were grasping at rays of the sun that she could see but not touch.

"Foolish girl, your desperation and fear of losing Urthemiel to Maric's bastard whelp has compelled you to push yourself too hard and too long," the old witch gloated. "You're as weak as water! Why do you think I've come to you now, of all times?" She stalked around the edge of the fire, her eyes glowing with an unholy light.

"Stay away from me," she warned, raising her staff up with both hands to swing it like a club at the graying head, but Flemeth spoke a single word of power and Morrigan's entire body froze in place. She could speak, but nothing more.

The Witch of the Wilds reached her daughter's side and lifted one gnarled hand to tenderly brush across her cheek. "It will all be over in a moment, Child. Mother just wants a good night kiss," she whispered in a soothing voice, pursing her lips.

Morrigan fought with every bit of strength and will she possessed, desperately trying to summon enough magic to do something—anything—that could help her escape, and all the while that familiar wrinkled face drew ever closer. "Mother, please…" she pleaded, hating the terror she heard in her own voice and then Flemeth's greasy, chapped lips pressed against her own in a gentle kiss. She convulsed as something thick and black and cloyingly sweet surged into her mouth and her body, both in the real world and the Fade, expanding and spreading through her like gangrene eating at rotted flesh until she felt her consciousness, her wits, her _soul_, all being devoured by the dark, malignant presence until there was nothing left.


End file.
